Black Wolf of the North
by Dakudoragon'naito87
Summary: Nineteen years ago a child was born in the Tower of Joy. A son, born of two ancient houses separated by loyalty and war. Now, Jon Snow seeks to find his place in the vast world he calls home. Yet Jon will one day learn that his path was lain out before him long ago. For as his House has always claimed... Winter is Coming. And this time, Fire alone shall not prevail. Ice however...
1. The Return Home

**Edit: July 6th 2016: Hey everyone as you may have noticed you will have no doubt gotten an email saying I updated this story. Yes and No. I went back and rewrote some of the stuff for the first chapter and then accidentally removed the old unedited chapter one from the fic, thusly making chapters 2 and 3 now 1 and 2. Luckily I keep saving the files I upload to my fanfiction account otherwise I'd have lost chapter two.**

**Regardless, point is I fixed what needed fixing, or at the least what I was able to catch while writing at 1:30 in the morning; and re-uploaded everything so now it's all ready to go.**

**Also since work is starting to give me a few shorter shifts and the football team I help coach is ending its season in two weeks I can safely tell you that updates will be more frequent through August. And chapter 4 for this and Hunter of the Force are underway as are the other updates for most if not all of my stories.**

**If you so wish, ignore the bold text author note below and go straight to the story. I sincerely hope you like the few changes I made.**

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**Hey everybody! I'm alive and kicking, and I just wanted to say- (Ducks as pitchforks and swords fly at my head.)**

**Jesus Christ people! Calm down! Now I know I was supposed to update my other story a loooooooong time ago but sadly, my laptop experienced an unfortunate accident and fanfiction for the life of me could not load on any web browser I tried. And in light of that I expanded my horizons and worked on a few stories I had on the back burner and that are currently being worked on, around twenty or so with a few chapters or alternate beginnings in each. My first story is still ongoing so be patient, and the next chapter is being underway as we speak. Half way done and in editing so hold on tight.**

**And this ladies and gents is but one of many. For I too have joined the Game of Thrones and Winter is Coming! Now be forewarned, most of my chapters early on are based on the information provided by friends and other fans alike. So please be patient with this one. As well, expect some OOCness for some characters, since I am working on reading book one and another series at the same time so some things about characters might come across differently than their canonical counterparts. As well this too has some elements from other franchises that belong to their respective owners and creators and are in no way, shape, or form owned by me. So lawyers... Screw off! I'm clean!**

**So without further ado, welcome friends, to the one place on earth where no one is safe. Welcome to the mind of George R. R. Martin...**

**And me!**

**Now... Who the hell threw my own freaking sword at my head?!**

* * *

The morning dawned crisp and cold as the wind danced across the tundra's of Northern Westeros. The frost of winters come and gone having begun to settle upon the land as the heat of summer began to fade. Even upon the branches of the trees and lain atop the smooth face of the rocks it was there for all to see, as ice and snow began to overtake all that had grown during ten years free of the harsh cold of winter. For the long summer has at last finally begun to give way to the ever looming season most feared in the land. For as the famed words of House Stark proclaim, 'Winter is coming.' And as foretold millennia ago, it is a winter such as this that shall shroud the lands in The Long Night once again... It is a winter such as this that will decide the fate of the world.

Deep in the valleys of the North, a man cloaked in furs and armor of onyx black walked along the course grass and weathered rock; the light of the sun beginning to rise from beyond the horizon. His figure stood tall and proud amidst the open tundra of the North. The sole constant upon the land as he continued his trek through the mountains and sparse forests, which had begun early that very morning. His every step shrouded by shadow and trailed by the light of the rising sun. The figure's face save for his chin and his mouth was obscured by the shadow of a great hood, the weathered cloth dyed an abyssal black that flowed wildly in the harsh winds. The hood once proud and unblemished was now tattered and frayed, a small number of holes and nearly the entire hem having given way to age and general use. Yet the proud image of the great Direwolf, sewn into it with greatest care so long ago still remained... The stitch yet faded and worn from exposure to the elements of the world.

A flash of silver and white escaped the many folds of the traveler's cloak, as the hilt belonging to a great blade was bared to the world. The pommel of the blade was unique in its fashioning, formed from hardened ivory stone that was as hard as granite. For the piece had been meticulously carved and shaped with the greatest of care into the snarling, fanged grin of the famed direwolves beyond the Wall. The pommel then travelled down and lay atop the bottom portion of a black, leather-bound wooden grip that rose to the guard of the blade. The straight grip was sturdy and strong, the leather worn from years of battle and formed at a hand–and–a–half length.

Furs in a mixture of black and grey lined the interior of the man's cloak, idly flowing in the wind as steam arose from within the shadow of the hood with his every breath. The cloak was not fastened as one would expect for those travelling the North; for rather than being bundled like a swaddled babe the center was opened to expose the armor and clothes of the man underneath. Strong leather armor with its surface sleek and smooth to the eye was inlaid with smoke colored steel that flashed in the light of the morn. The armor was exposed from underneath the tattered garments as he walked, the winds whipping the man's garb about as he trekked ever onward. Patterns and intricate designs were cast upon the etched steel, with light grey fur peeking out from underneath the pauldron, boots, and the twin bracers fit snug to the man's forearms.

The great hood continued to sway and flap in the harsh winds, the howl of it akin to that of a vengeful beast as it passed through stone and tree. The man's hands and arms moved back and forth with every step as he continued on his way, the leather gloves that left his fingers bare from the second knuckle flashing as the steel plate on the back caught the errant ray of light. His leather-bound and armored boots, worn and well worked-in were coated in the thinnest layer of muck and grime that clung to his every step upon the dampened earth along his path. His hood flapped wildly as a great gust of wind erupted from behind him, the garments constant moving revealing a neatly trimmed beard of darkest black along the man's chin and mouth. The dark hair surrounded a grinning mouth and lightly chapped lips; the steam of his breath floating away on the breeze.

Course grass and frosted undergrowth crunched with every step as he walked, the worn and ancient paths and ever looming forest bringing him to the base of a large hill; that so great was its height that it allowed the young man to overlook the entirety of the valley from Winterfell to Riverrun. His grin widening to be more akin to that of a wolf's, the man sprinted upwards with the cloak trailing behind him like a great shadow given life; his feet thundering against the thawing earth with every step.

His armor and furs masked his presence in the shadow of the thickening trees, as the lush forest swallowed him into its depths with every step taken. The sheath of the large blade hung at his hip, now lay free from the inner shadows of his garb. The dark wood gleamed in the errant light that pierced the inky veil, the mouth of it partially wrapped with coloured leathers of grey and black.

Yet like the wind itself, the man moved akin to a being possessed as he pushed himself harder and harder. His arms rose just as steadily as when he began, pumping rhythmically as his legs followed suit as he sprinted ever onward at a wicked pace. Surefooted and swift, he leapt and bounded atop all in his path as he headed for the top, grinning wildly as his heart beat within his chest like a hammer upon an anvil. Trees and rocks were but new paths to explore and traverse in his eyes, something he had taken to heart from his mentor's many lessons years ago.

Confident and unyielding, not a sound could be heard as he dashed through the trees. All manner of beasts fled before him as he ran, wary as they relied upon instinct honed for thousands of years to recognize a true predator on the prowl. Soon however the young man's fun had to come to an end, as the trees began to thin and the light grew stronger until at last he was free from the dark. With a great leap he burst forth from the treeline, tucking into a roll and coming to rest at a crouch overlooking the plains and valleys of the noble Lord Stark's territory. Slowly, with the sure footed grace and confidence of a great warrior he rose to his feet, cloak billowing out behind him as he stared at the land he had grown up in. He stood in silence at the very edge of the bluff, as broken stone and dirt crumbled beneath his feet to fall to the earth a hundred feet below. The man's eyes, dark and strong flashed a steel grey as they focused solely upon the black castle in the distance with an eagle like intensity. The great monument and ancestral home to the House of Stark was only but a speck on the horizon, lain out atop the endless expanse of flat northern terrain. The man began to chuckle to himself, fingerless gloved hands resting on his hips as joy glowed brightly in the grey depths of his eyes. The image all the more striking as his tattered cloak flapped wildly behind him in a howl of freezing wind. Slowly crossing his arms, the leather and metal bound bracers flashed briefly in the sun and revealed the intricate patterning etched upon the black and grey colored steel.

As he laughed the movement of his shoulders and chest shifted the great hood, so tattered and frayed that it at last began to fall. Revealing to the world long, lightly curled locks of silken black tied into a small ponytail that came to rest just slightly between his shoulder blades. With a few errant bangs coming to rest over his grey eyes as his sharp features basked in the light of the sun once more. A narrow scar ran down the left side of his face, starting just slightly above the left brow and coming to rest slightly above the beard on the same cheek. So it was with a bright glint in his steel colored eyes that Jon Snow, Bastard of Winterfell laughed joyfully as he gazed upon his family home; the crooked grin he now sported stretching from ear to ear as he moved his hands to rest against his hips once more. His worn cloak continuing to fly and wrap around his shoulders as it always had during the five long years he had been away.

"After all these years... I'm finally home," he said aloud with a sense of awe barely hidden in his words. Jon's eyes shone bright and sharp as steel as he turned and began to make his way down the bluff as he tried to keep Winterfell within his line of sight. Excitement and a giddy sense of relief began to course through him at the prospect of seeing every one after all these years apart, his mind filled with the wonder of how they might have changed in his absence. Yet a peculiar sound reached his ears, like the endless trill of a thousand war drums in harmony that seemed to try beating against his skull. An odd sound if he had ever heard one this far to the North. Looking up to the once clear skies, Jon watched with thin lips as dark clouds the colour of pitch rolled forth like a great wave over the land. Even from where he stood the sharp crack of thunder and flash of lighting was all too easy to see and hear even at this distance.

Narrowing his eyes in annoyance, Jon stilled his mind as the harsh winds scattered the fallen leaves around him and set a small shiver down his back. Reaching around carefully, Jon pulled the hood up once more. Even now a small sense of relief flashed through his mind as his face was once more obscured in shadow. "Storm's coming," he muttered with annoyance clear in his tone as he increased his pace. Rolling his eyes, Jon's shoulders sagged in resignation as he climbed down. "Better get a move on then," he murmured lowly, voice shifting to cold and unflinching as he continued to speak. "Best to not get caught up in this before I reach Winterfell."

So on and on Jon descended to the valley below, every step measured and swift as lightning flashed and thunder roared across the land.

* * *

While far from our hero, deep within the sheltered walls of the castle upon the horizon, a sense of excitement permeated the air. The people were alert and focused; their motions driven with renewed vigor and a new-found sense of urgency as they moved about. For news had reached them that His Grace, the Lord Robert Baratheon, King of the Andals and First of his Name has set out for Winterfell. They dashed through the streets in excited packs, looking to and fro in wonder as if a expecting the King to arrive any moment. Yet one man was noticeably absent from the walls of his Keep.

For deep in the forest surrounding the back of the great estate, shrouded by the shadows cast on all sides by the godswood of his ancestors, Lord Eddard "Ned" Stark sat in silence. His face was grim as stone and furrow browed, yet his eyes were sharp as they gazed into the smoke colored blade of his family's greatest treasure. His mouth was pressed into a thin line, his beard trimmed neat and shot with grey that was shadowed by the darkening skies as the storm broiled overhead. The light wrinkles and laugh lines upon his face were far more pronounced than they had been five years ago, yet the Quiet Wolf still retained a sense of power and strength despite these obvious signs of age. His furs and leathers kept him warm while his body remained unmindful, or perhaps better to say accustomed to the cold winds of his harsh homeland.

Yet even the steady rhythm of sweeping an oil soaked cloth against the flat of his great blade did little to sooth his troubled mind. His every thought driven to focus upon every detail found within the message he had received a week ago from the raven from King's Landing. This sole piece of parchment had proceeded to send his mind into a whirlwind of emotions, with thoughts and theories just as twisted as the last having begun to plague his every thought for the past few days. The raven had arrived late into the eve a few nights ago, telling him of the death of Jon Arryn. The man whom had raised him after his father and elder brother's grisly deaths at the hands of Aerys Targaryen. The man who had taught him to rule and whom he had grown to love as a father from the time he was but a small boy of eight. Not to mention, the message of Robert's unexpected, and in Ned's mind, frustrating visit.

His annoyance only continued to grow as he sat alone in the godswood, eyes hard and face slowly morphing into a snarl as he stared at the polished steel of his family's ancestral blade. Until at last his anger boiled over like a pot of grease atop a fire, his fury having peaked and raged like a colossal flame as his wrath was unleashed. The mixed stress of preparing for the arrival of Robert and the news of Jon Arryn's death had pushed him to the brink at last.

"Gods damn you to the Eternal Dark Robert!" Ned cried out in fury, raising his hand bearing the oil laden cloth and smashing it upon the flat and fuller of his ancient blade. The flat, dull ring of cloth and flesh against solid steel echoed around the great tree, Ned's breathing harsh and tense as he slumped back and held his head in his cloth free hand. Breathing deeply and in a soft rhythm so as to calm himself, Ned stared blankly at his reflection in the Valyrian steel great sword. Grey eyes as hard as granite yet as warm as a soft fire were now darkened to soulless black, empty and bleak as Ned tried to retake control of the beast within. The sharp angular jaw tensed and the muscles jumped beneath the skin, eyes narrowed in concentration as Ned felt the ice in his blood sooth the rage of the wolf famed in his family.

The news of Jon's death and Robert's impending visit had set Ned's nerves upon a knife's edge, coupled with the stress of preparing his people for the harsh winter to come and Ned had found himself pressed on all sides in recent hours. Yet that was not all that troubled him. For Ned had expected another letter, one he had awaited five years for. From the boy who had left in the darkness of night five years ago, to this day if Ned remembered correctly. "Bastard" he may have been... But Ned had loved that boy from the moment he set eyes on him so many years ago. Despite what had occurred as a result of what led to the boy's birth. Ned's mind and heart had then often warred with each other in the years following Jon's escape from Winterfell at the age of fourteen.

Ned sighed as he thought about what had happened between him and Jon those five years ago, which had turned on its head and led to the boy's departure. Where Jon had approached Ned late one night to speak privately in the Warden of the North's own chambers, and once alone Jon had asked that he be allowed to go out on his own. To travel far away from the North. Far from the protection of Winterfell's walls. Jon had never once asked anything of Ned before, not in all the years he had lived in the ancestral seat of House Stark. The action alone was enough to garner the Warden of the North's undivided attention on the matter.

Jon then went on to explain his desire to see the world and to discover his place in it. To travel the Seven Kingdoms and learn more about the land he called home and the people within it. For a few moments it had seemed like the boy's pleas and words had nearly broken through Ned's hard expression of doubt... But Ned had been firm in his own belief and just as adamant for Jon to remain in Winterfell. For reasons known only to himself and many who had died long before the boy was born. But things had taken a grief stricken turn when Jon had at last felt confident enough to ask about something that had essentially become taboo in Winterfell after he had arrive there as a babe nestled in Lord Stark's arms.

He asked about his mother.

Ned had been struck into tense silence by the demand, and regrettably let his anger and deep rooted fear get the better of him for but a few fleeting moments. Ned was harsh, that much he knew to be true after having so long to reflect on the encounter. Immediately denying the boy the knowledge he sought until Ned felt that he was ready to know. Yet in that moment Ned had forgotten that his son took after the line of the wolf far more than even some of Ned's other children. They had butted heads and bared their teeth like fangs, the two more alike savage wolves over a carcass; snarling and cursing the other for what seemed like hours into the night. On this night, Ned knew that this was where their relationship traversed ever closer to the breaking point, and had created a vast schism between them that Ned was desperate to close.

The first very real, and indeed very volatile argument in living memory between them... And Jon had left Ned's study far more bitter and angry than ever before. Yet that night, when Ned had sought out the boy to apologize and explain his reasoning once his head had cleared and the anger had faded away, Jon had seemingly vanished into the night. Ned had become panic stricken when he came across the empty bed and the fire place filled with nothing but ash and cinder. As for the first time since he had survived his duel beneath the Tower of Joy, Eddard Stark had felt utterly paralyzing fear.

The Warden of the North had planned on sending out the search parties immediately, mouth opened and ready to give the call for his men... Until the old warrior noted that the cloak he had gifted Jon not three days previously was gone. The space where it hung within the room now empty, save for a note written on finest parchment in Jon's familiar scrawl addressed solely to him lanced upon it. Ned remembered how he had reached out with trembling fingers to grasp the letter, his mouth dry as the Dornish sands as he gently pulled it from the tattered hook. Even then the words were swimming before his eyes as panic faded and calm focus took its place to put the troubled Lord's mind at ease.

He in fact still had the letter locked in his study, placed safely within the top drawer of his desk among many other personal affects resided there during Ned's time as Lord Stark. To act as a reminder that his son would indeed one day return to where he belonged. Safe and sound within the stone walls of their families ancestral keep and far from the prying eyes and ears of those in the South. Leaning back against the aged tree, with its smooth bark and wide trunk cool to the touch even through the leathers he wore slowly eased the Northern Lord into a lulled state of being, his anger gone only to be replaced by serenity and hope.

Ned's eyes began to droop as a feeling of peace and contentment settled in his stomach; the sound of wind and howling beasts having calmed his mind as his inner beast howled in content. The aged warrior slowly felt his eyes beginning to close, heavier and heavier as he felt his head fall back and lay against the smooth bark. Then in the fleetest of moments, the feeling of serenity and peace was shattered like so many panes of glass. As a drop of rain, brisk and cold splashed against Ned's nose, waking him instantly. Ned leapt forward, posture tense and crouched low as his hand clasped firmly around the hilt of his sword. Ned's eyes scanned the treeline, narrowed in concentration as his breath steadied and his mind entered a light haze. The crash of thunder and a single moment of piercing light was his only answer however, as Ned stood quickly; the dark grey leathers splashed with sparse drops of heavy rain. Without a single glance to the skies, Ned sheathed Ice, buckling the blade to his back and made for home, hopeful that Catelyn would have saved him some supper as he shook his head and cleared his thoughts.

His heavy boots sloshed through muck and grime, the grasses of the clearing already doused in rain while glistening in the fading light. Not a word escaped his lips as his shoulder length locks began to plaster to his head and neck, the light trickle of rain now a steady downpour as he sought the comfort of a warm dry bed and hot food.

* * *

While just outside the great wooden gates of his old home, Jon cursed darkly under his breath to all the gods he could name. From Braavos to Essos not a single deity was spared his frustration and wrath as he trekked forward, his cloak soaked through and other garments weighed down by the torrential rains. The slosh of mud and steady splash of his boots entering ankle-deep water was all he could hear, as the ice-cold rain chilled his bones and weighed him down. His teeth began to chatter, his furs all that protected the young man from certain demise in this gods damned cold. At the edges of his field of sight, the glow of a lantern breaks through the heavy blanket of rain, making hope rise in his chest.

"Thank the old gods for small mercies," he murmured in relief with a hopeful grin, drawing the cloak closer towards his torso to try and conserve what heat that remained. Rushing forth he shouted out towards the keep, hoping the noise would be able to reach the guards posted at the ramparts through the howl of the storm. Raising his hand high, Jon quickened his pace, the boots he wore now coated in grime that quickly vanished as it was washed away by the rain.

"Hold good sers!" Jon yelled, hand moved to cover his face from the deep spouts of water formed from the walls. "I beg of you to open the gates. To let a man weary of this forsaken weather a respite from her cruel mercies," he pleaded, watching as the guards lanterns moved in odd patterns, as the sound of voices both gruff and frustrated danced along the winds towards his ears. Jon stayed silent, watching intently as the guards voices lulled into harsh whispers and grunts. After a time, when Jon had begun to grow impatient a single guard glanced down, his face one of disbelief and frustration.

"What the bloody fuck are you doing outside in this weather you damned fool?!" the guard asked disbelievingly, utterly bewildered that a man would dare to be caught in a storm the likes of this. Particularly a man dressed from head to foot in black; his armor and weapons covered in naught but a ragged cloak with nary a horse in sight.

Jon's annoyance became almost palpable, his glare burning through the guard's skull with the intensity of a hot iron poker. The young man's hard grey eyes having darkened to a shade of purple-black for the barest of moments. He leaned back to yell at the guard in turn, his own voice dripping venom and frustration as the anger in his voice made his next words lash out with the sharpness of a whip.

"It wasn't my intention, nor want to be caught beyond the walls ya bloody fool! But I can tell you now I don't have time for such foolish questions if the harsh thunder o'er our heads isn't enough reason for you! Just open the gods damned gates already!" the Bastard of Winterfell yelled hoarsely, the flash of steel in the lantern light confirming Jon's suspicions that the guards had forsaken cloaks of their own. The guard who had spoken remained vehement however, desperate and curious to learn what possessed a man to stay in the fields at such an hour. Let alone that the dark clad stranger was clad in such strange garb that would normally mark one as being a Crow of the Night's Watch.

"Not until you answer my question ya damned fool!" the guard answered back, hand slowly inching to the sword at his waist. He gently knocked the arm of his partner, a young man who turned to look at him, the rain dripping like a sheet from his helm. "Inform Lord Stark of this matter," the elder man ordered. "I trust milord would like to know of the black cloaked stranger banging at our doors at this time of night."

The young man nodded eagerly as lifted his lantern on high and swiftly opened the door that led to the inner staircase built within the rampart, the cold stone steps which led to the courtyard shining from the rain that followed the man. The guard quickly dashed down the tower stair case to the roads, heading directly for the Keep as he tried to keep his feet about him. His armor began to gently ring with every step in the din of the empty streets, as the rain continued to fall and plaster upon its surface. The guard who remained atop the tower then glanced balefully down at the soaking man in black, eyes narrowed harshly as he began squinting through the rain and sleet.

Jon however, whilst unknowing of the messenger heading for the Keep, was neither impressed nor amused. His patience had been quite steadily been run thin as the cold clawed at his energy and his stomach growled, begging for a hot meal and a decent nights rest in a warm bed. And as his frustration grew Jon began to pace like a caged animal before the great wooden gates, a snarl near pursing his lips and a dark look in his eyes. Said eyes soon having riveted themselves upon where he knew the guard to be, like a predator stalking its prey. The twin orbs of storm grey alight in the dark with menacing fury. Growls escaped his throat and teared from his lips like those of a great beast as the rain continued to fall, Jon's time in the wilds beyond the Wall having allowed him the chance to temper his anger and instinct into a fine edged blade. Yet his patience, while considerably greater than it had been when he left long ago, was finally running out.

For Jon Snow was not one to enjoy being left to stand idle in the pouring rain, caked in the mud and grime from his journey. With his boots sinking inch by inch into the earth of Winterfell.

Freezing his goddamn arse off while starving and tired at Castle Black and beyond the Wall; that Jon could live with. It allowed him the chance to hone his instincts and skills in order to survive. But down here, soaking wet from head to toe and freezing his arse off while the guards asked him idiotic questions all night? Jon would sooner end up jumping into a frozen lake than have them waste his time.

His mind made up, Jon stopped his pacing entirely. His mouth set into a firm line with his hands at his hip, the left hand placed upon the pommel of the large blade hung at his side. Itching to rant and curse the guard from here to Sunspear, the only thing that stopped Jon from doing such was that the young man knew it would not help him here. More than likely, it would get him a one way ticket to the dankest cell in his father's dungeons. And after a few moments more, Jon's patience had finally run out. Shattering with the force of a hammer blow as his eyes narrowed.

He snarled angrily, his mouth similar to the raised hackles of their house sigil. "Oh I don't have fucking time for this," Jon whispered harshly, flinging his arms to his sides in frustration. Looking skyward once more, Jon's hood fell to rest at his neck, letting his black locks plaster upon his face and forehead. The guard however, was surprised and utterly perplexed to see someone akin to a younger version of Lord Stark drenched by the rain. The same sharp features and the neatly trimmed beard set about with hard darkened grey eyes and black as night hair unsettled the man slightly as a name came to mind, yet just as easily slipped from his grasp. The guard watched on, confused and unnerved as he waited for the messenger to return, whilst watching as the stranger took three quick strides back, the cloak billowing behind him from the force of the turn – about.

This confusion soon turned to horror as the aged guard watched in stunned silence as the cloaked man sprinted faster than any hound and leapt skyward. A solid impact met the older man's ears as the man watched the younger man ascend the stone walls of Winterfell with the practised ease of a man well versed in such a craft, and the grace of a wolf on the prowl. In a matter of moments, the stranger had scrambled up and over the stone ramparts, landing with the dull thud of leather boots upon wood and stone as his armor and weapons were suddenly illuminated in a flash of lightning. Turning in unison, the two men stared at on another. The guard's ice blue eyes were wide in fear now, gazing with dread into pools of hardened grey and purple-black.

The elderly guard stood in stunned silence, hand on the hilt of his blade as all his years of experience and his training had not prepared him for such an event. The cloaked man only smirked mischievously, flashing his teeth and the two sharpened canines on the upper row that sent a chill down the bannerman's spine. Jon let his smile slip away, mouth set into a tight line as his eyes darkened and lost all their warmth. He turned and ran without a second glance towards the opposite side of the ramparts, leaping off the sodden walkway and tucking into a roll as he landed hard on the roof of the barracks below that thankfully led to the inner courtyard before heading up the main road towards the inner keep. Jon used the momentum to keep going, knowing that as soon as the alarm sounded out every guard in Winterfell would be after his hide.

A wolfish grin spread across his lips, excitement drumming within his spirit like a battered drum. This was going to be fun.

* * *

Eddard Stark had been very near to retiring to bed for the night, his body weary from the stress and long events of the day as he sat in his chambers before the raging fire. The heat seeped into his limbs as his muscles relaxed and sleep seemed near. Even now the soft weight and presence of his wife sunk into the bed beckoned to him, and Ned was more than prepared to answer the call for the night. When out of nowhere, the sound of raised voices and clattering iron rang through the halls of the black keep. Ned shifted his gaze to his chamber doors in confusion as Catelyn rose to sit beside him with the covers brought to her chest, both unaware that the rest of their family had been woken up by the noise and were clamoring to reach him from their own rooms on the same floor of the keep.

That was quickly settled when Robb Stark, the Heir to Winterfell and the future Warden of the North arrived first with his younger siblings trailing behind him. Robb was also, to Ned's surprise, carrying little Rickon in his arms; the young lad's brows furrowed in confusion as the little boy laid his tired head atop his big brother's shoulder.

"Father," Robb said urgently, causing Ned to turn his head sharply to regard his eldest son. "What's going on?" the young man asked in confusion, a sentiment shared by the rest of the Stark children as they drew nearer to the two men, falling into place shoulder to shoulder behind their big brother. Sansa however seemed less than pleased to do so, frustrated at having her beauty sleep disturbed at such an ungodly hour.

Ned regarded each of his children coolly, eyes narrowed in thought as the sounds from earlier drew near.

"I don't know my son," he soon admitted with a soft sigh, moving to stand in front of his family whilst reaching for the sword lain atop the table a few feet away. "But I promise you, I will discover the source of this madness as soon as I can," he swore, satisfied at seeing the slight sag of relief in his children's frames.

Voices could now be heard beyond the great wooden doors that led to the Lord Stark's room, growing louder and louder as they bounced along the stone walls with a faint echo that was steadily amplified by the smooth stone of the ancient castle. Words, no longer the dark mumble of dampened wood reached the families keen and wary ears.

"You best have a bloody good reason for disturbing the Lord at such an hour!" one cried out in indignation, the voice raspy and scratched with a deep baritone. Ser Deran if Lord Stark remembered correctly, one of his finest from the Rebellion days. Another voice answered the first, the speaker no doubt closer to boyhood than his much older counterpart.

"If you would let me pass without having half the guards trailing our every step then perhaps I might be able to deliver the message to him with greater haste!" the speaker shot back, tone livid and sharp as Ser Deran seemed to mull over the speakers words.

"That's one of the new Keep soldiers, Bann Wilder." Sansa murmured into her brother Robb's ear; unaware that her father had caught the faint whispers escaping her lips. The name set Ned's face into a deep scowl. Bann was supposed to be manning the gates alongside Dregor until daybreak. For what purpose would the man desert his post to come here of all places?

Ned soon received his answer as the alarm sounded out with a furious zeal, the heavy bell echoing all through the castle walls as each person within froze in shock at the sound.

The doors burst open as Bann strode forth, armor dripping with rain and his boots coated in mud from his trip across the yards into the Keep. Bann was for a word, in many of the Northerners opinion, ordinary. Short cropped brown hair the texture of straw rested upon his lightly round head, his eyes a dull blue, coupled with features neither ugly nor outlandishly handsome. Pale skin free of scars and marks of age dominated his features, his chin smooth and free of any indications signalling the ascent to manhood. The boy upon seeing Ned and his family bowed deeply at the waist, as more guards entered behind him and stood at the ready beside the doors.

"My lord, forgive me for interrupting your evening; but Ser Dregor thought it best you learn of the man cloaked in black prowling at our gates," he said quickly, face flushed from lack of air and no doubt the fatigue acquired from running in the heavy chain armor all the way from the outer wall. Another man, much broader in frame and a head taller moved to the boy's right. His body covered from head to foot in plate armor, marked by battle and time which clanged upon the stone floor with each step. His helm covered his face as he bowed low and moved to stand beside the Warden of the North.

"Forgive me m'lord, but it seems that there is more to this than it seems," the armored man said, his voice now identifying him as Ser Deran. Deran soon relieved himself of the helm, looking towards the other guards while clasping the hilt of his blade. He swiftly moved aside to present the open hall for the Lord, his dark brown eyes searching as his greying hair fell to his neck in sweated clumps. "For as you can plainly hear how the bell now tolls. And I feel perhaps our cloaked man is behind it."

Ned said not a word, remaining silent as he shifted his gaze to the fire, his profile captured in the light and revealing not but shadows to those watching him.

Ser Deran shifted uneasily from foot to foot as more time passed and the bell continued to toll, gently placing the helm aside and peering at his Lord in confusion. He made to move forward when Ned's next words shattered the tense silence around them.

"Gather a group of your five best and meet in the main hall, I will be there shortly," Ned ordered stiffly, his voice and posture brokering no argument from his men. Ser Deran seemed torn, particularly under the Lady Catelyn's scrutiny, but knew it was a battle he could not win. Not with the Quiet Wolf.

Bowing his head, Deran saluted crisply; pressing a closed fist over his heart and swiftly left the room, the rest of the guards following after to take up positions outside in the hall. Ned wasted not a moment more, moving about and gathering his armor and sword, blatantly ignoring the thunderstruck looks of his wife and the worried gazes of his children. He quickly donned a light leather jerkin, knowing his experience and guard detail would provide better protection against a foolhardy assassin than any plate or mail.

Turning to his family, Ned strode forward and clasped Robb's shoulders, the younger man's eyes pleading to go with him. Ned leaned down to better look at his son eye-to-eye, gently laying a hand atop Rickon's head as the other squeezed Robb's shoulder.

"They are under you care until I return," Ned said lowly, unhindered by Robb's widened eyes and Rickon's glazed and tired stare. Ned then gently held Robb in place as he spoke to him. "Do you understand?" Ned asked quietly, his eyes calm and focused as stone grey bored unflinchingly into light ice-blue.

Robb stayed silent, being utterly thunderstruck until his shock was replaced by cold and unflinching resolve. He tilted his head back, confidently meeting his father's eyes and nodding slowly. "I promise no harm will come to them," the Young Wolf swore, voice steady and hard as Valyrian steel. The young man's honesty too layered atop the words like a gentle silk, setting the aged Lord at ease.

Ned smiled lightly as he patted Rickon's head and stepped back and headed for the doors. His parting words having carried throughout the room. "Be safe my son."

While in the castle bowels, Ser Deran and Bann Wilder made their way to the barracks, their feet falling in tandem as the torchlight guided them. Bann seemed uneasy to the aged knight's eyes, his hands fidgeting with the folds of his leather cloak that he had placed overtop the mail a few moments ago.

"You alright lad?" Deran asked gently laying a hand atop the younger man's shoulders so as not to startle him. Bann said not a word, until he stopped to slowly turn with a wicked smile gracing his lips. The sight alone having sent a feeling of dread down the aged knight's spine.

"Never better," Bann whispered breathily, until he drew a silver dagger and swiftly rammed it through the elder knight's eye socket. Rushing to clamp a hand over the dying knight's open mouth the two tumbled to the floor with a great bang. Deran's screams reached no friendly ear as the group of guards that had accompanied them watched in silence, cruel smirks dancing upon their own lips as the knight felt his life slipping away. Rolling in a mass of plate and leather, Bann struggled against the mighty Deran tirelessly, panting harshly as the dying warrior thrashed and tried desperately to kill the traitor in his last conscious thoughts. A few seconds more ended with Bann receiving a plate enclosed fist to the side of his head, as Ser Deran simply stopped cold; his gauntlet clad hands crashing against the stone floor. A rattling gurgle escaped his throat as his brown eyes dimmed, blood pooling around his head that only continued to grow.

Bann wilder only struggled for breath as he rose to his feet, wiping the blood stained dagger on the inside of Deran's cloak before sheathing it within his shirt. Gently wiping his hand across the side of his head, warm and slick blood stained his fingers a stark crimson. Snorting in disgust, Bann tore a section off Deran's cloak and cleaned himself of the blood, hoping the dark hair would mask the wound for now. Looking at the guards, he nodded as they made their way to the barracks, a single sentence escaping their lips in unison with utter devotion and glee.

"All Hail King Viserys!" they cried as they planned the next stage of their plan.

All of them unaware of the shadowed figure outside the little window, hood drawn up as he glared after the murderer. Jon clenched his teeth as his armored hands creaked from the force, utterly furious as he leapt up and followed from the roof of the hall the assassin's had run down.

"Like hell you'll get away from me you bastards!" Our young hero snarled, memories of practicing his sword work with Deran as a child and coming to the aged man for advice when Jon was trying to give his father his space as a child having flashed before his eyes. Worse still, Jon knew that name, and the danger his father was in because of it.

Jon stared ahead, the bracer on his arms growing heavy as his hands flexed, ready to unleash his justice upon the assassins. Shifting his gaze into the stormy skies, rain plastered Jon's face as his eyes narrowed in anger.

"Even in death," he muttered darkly, hands clenched and a growl escaping his throat. "You still plague my family like a shadow you heartless son of a bitch." He proclaimed morbidly, hoping he wasn't too late to end this plot before it took all he had left in the world.

Eddard Stark stood within the main entrance hall in silence, his leather jerkin hidden beneath a leather cloak, gazing out into the stormy night as he waited for Ser Deran and his men. The sound of clattering armored feet soon reached his ears as Ned turned to the side passageway, ease slipping into his mind as he waited for Deran to cross the threshold. However… It was not Deran who walked through the door. Rather it was young Bann Wilder, leading a group of eight men behind him. Each armed to the teeth in their armor and weapons. Their faces but blank masks of indifference as they looked upon the now weary Lord Stark. Ned felt the hairs on the back of his neck grow tall as he looked at the group, instincts flashing in warning as he slowly moved to place his back to the stone wall, firmly grasping the hilt of his sword.

"What is the meaning of this Wilder?" Ned demanded, eyes fixed on the young man who smiled wickedly at him. "Where is Ser Deran?!"

Bann only laughed, gently playing with a nine-inch dagger in his left hand that gleamed in the light of the fire. Walking around the room, Bann only smirked as the guards aimed their blades and pikes at the Lord of Winterfell, whose back was pressed against the wall.

"Ser Deran has been..." Bann paused as he gently moved the knife to move across his throat in a slashing motion, the glint of insanity alight in his blue eyes. "Disposed of m'lord. A shame really." Bann said a faux remorseful look overtaking the mask of the insane murderer. The twisted man fixed Ned with a pointed look as he moved to stand directly in front of his false Lord. "He had such potential as well, but alas," "Bann remarked with a shrug. "His loyalty was not to be so easily bought."

Ned felt cold fury surge within him, his calculative mindset shattered like splintered ice as his inner beast took hold. Hot rage and thirst for blood at the slaughter of one of his best and most trustworthy added only fuel to the mounting pyre as Ned drew his blade, the light of the fire glinting off the iron sword as if the blade gained its master's wicked urge. Brandishing it towards the assassins, Ned spoke coldly, his words sharp as ice and delivered with the cool confidence of an experienced warrior.

"I hope you picked a proper site for your grave traitor. For that is the only decent thing I promise to do once I leave your head from its shoulders and execute those who follow you," Ned swore, unafraid as he tossed the cloak aside and letting it fall to the floor behind him. The crack of thunder echoed through the great hall as lightning flashed, illuminating a figure standing tall behind the beautiful stained glass window above them that was unnoticed by the eight men below.

Bann regarded the older man with a grudging respect, motioning for the traitorous guards to close in and end the man's life. And as Ned readied for battle, the unthinkable occurred.

The stain glass window adorning the wall above Ned shattered; its colorful shards' raining down upon the assassins and stone floors. A lone figure sheathed in black fell from the stormy night, landing before the Lord with his hood drawn up and his body hidden by a heavy cloak.

The would be assassins stumbled back from the surprise appearance of this strange being, their weapons held defensively as they regarded this new quarry with suspicion and unease. Bann, ill prepared for the interference of such a being became outraged, the dagger held firmly in his hand as he cursed the newcomer to the pits of the nether world. Glaring at his cohorts, he yelled hoarsely, uncaring that they might be discovered.

"Don't stand there you simpletons!" he screamed, pointing a trembling hand at the Lord Stark and hooded man. "Kill them both!"

The guards only shrugged in response as two of their number charged forth, brandishing their swords wildly as they neared the hooded man.

The tall black cloaked man only lifted his head ever so slightly, a small smirk adorning his lips as he flexed his wrists. And from his actions, a telltale sound of steel sliding from a sheath echoed out as he darted forward and slammed his hands flat against his two aggressors throats. Their bodies locked in place, gurgles all that escaped them as blood bloomed from their necks. Slowly they collapsed to the floor and their weapons clashed with the sharp ring of steel on stone. Revealing to all twin, almost an inch and a quarter width blades a foot in length coming from the man's wrists. Coated from tip to the base in rivers of fresh, warm blood. Slowly lowering his arms, the figure huffed at the rest in disdain as he watched his opponents shuffle uncomfortably at the sight of what he had done as the twin blades retracted back into his bracers.

His cloak opened to reveal intricate leather armor of dark grey and black, lain with etchings of fine steel that gleamed from the fire. His gloved hands were held down and out to his sides, the cloak falling slowly to rest upon the floor to show a figure dressed for war as his armor glinted harshly in the light. Dark grey clothes of finest cotton rested underneath the armor, a bastard sword sheathed at his hip that swung free beside a strange dagger of purest black holstered near his ribs. A crossbow was slung at his lower back, with the tattered hood of his robes still able to hide his features from view. Anger swept through the attackers, each charging to slay the man who dared to defy them and to avenge their fellow conspirators.

The leader lunged with his pike, a smile wicked and fowl gracing his lips as cruel laughter exited his throat. Thinking that the stranger was doomed, ready to be run through by the weapon held in his hands. Instead, much to everyone's utter disbelief, the cloaked man merely twisted to the side at the last possible moment; bringing his left arm up, over, and down while simultaneously raising the right to shatter the wooden neck of the weapon. The sound of tempered iron hitting the stone next to his foot seemed to act as a signal for the man, who ducked down and grasped the shattered pike head. He lashed out to his left and threw it hard, watching with disinterest as it lanced through the air with the grace of an arrow... Directly into the open mouth of the nearest guard. The spray of blood as it exited the man's neck and severed his cerebral column staining the floors and tapestries of House Stark with steaming ruby. The man was dead before he hit the floor.

Capitalizing on the other men's shock and thunderstruck horror, the hooded warrior surged forth with renewed strength. Drawing his sword while he simultaneously released the small blade in his left bracer he raised his sword high and struck. Slicing the man still clutching the severed wooden pole of his pike from neck to hip in one clean swing. While his wrist blade severed the jugular of the man standing to his left, nearly decapitating him as he followed up with a swift elbow to the temple. Knocking the struggling and wheezing man to the floor with the force of a hammer as he gasped for breath. While his partner died in utter agony, desperately trying to keep his organs intact with his last moments as the wooden pole fell from his blood soaked fingers to clatter on the floor below. The rest of the traitors, now numbering three gazed at their attacker warily.

Ned Stark was utterly perplexed and shocked at the skill and efficiency behind the newcomer's attacks. Each of them designed to debilitate and capitalize on any openings the attacker may perceive in the aggressor's advance. Yet for all his awe and shocked stupor, Ned noticed that something was… Uncomfortably familiar about the man. A feeling that perplexed Ned to no end, for the only other to bring such a feeling to him had died long ago at the Trident. Bann, having it seemed soiled his breeches, cried out in horror at the beast which had quickly disposed of some of his best men in a matter of seconds.

"Who are you foul demon!" he cried out as the doors leading into the hall crashed open with a deafening bang. Turning in stunned silence, Bann was horrified at the sight that greeted him. The young Robb Stark, followed by his family having arrived with a regiment of guards, who had retrieved them after having discovered the cold corpse of Ser Deran only minutes earlier. Robb wasted no time and looked at the traitors that still remained, a sword in hand as he pointed it towards his targets.

"Seize them all and take them to the dungeons for questioning," he ordered without a shred of hesitation. His voice was frosty and like shards of grinding ice as he glared at Bann in utter loathing and bared his teeth in a wicked snarl. The guards wore masks of indifference at the sight of the traitors, yet their actions conveyed deep anger at the attempt against their Lord's life. They moved swiftly to comply, their weapons drawn… When the hooded man spoke, shocking everyone as he did. For it was a voice they all recognized, and thought never to hear from again.

Smirking, the strange man looked directly at Robb, dark grey eyes shrouded by black bangs meeting ice blue as Robb felt his heart stop for a single beat, and the very breath leave his lungs.

"While I appreciate the sentiment brother, I ask that you leave the traitors to me," the man said, slowly reaching up and lowering his hood. Revealing to all present a head of inky black curls of shoulder length, which were coupled with a neatly trimmed beard and a hard, unforgiving expression fixated solely upon the trembling Bann Wilder.

A cry rang out through the hall as the Stark children felt their eyes widen at the sight of their wayward brother. The brother who had vanished into the night five years ago and they dreaded to be dead and gone.

"Jon!" they cried out in surprise, the expressions they carried on their faces a mixture of shock and relief. Little Rickon, in all his excitement and full of joy coupled with the attention span of a little seven-year old tried to run to his big brother immediately; only to be stopped by Sansa in his tracks, as the young woman was overcome with shock at seeing her now rather dashing half-brother.

Jon felt the mask slip away to be replaced by a light smile as he regarded his siblings. However he knew that any questions and their reunions best wait until the real threat had been dealt with. So giving a nod of his head, Jon moved to place himself between the Stark family and the traitors, all while making sure that his enemies remained within his line of sight so as not to surprise him.

Ned only stood dumbfounded, collapsing against the stone wall as he slowly sank to his knees. Tears came to his eyes for the first time in nearly twenty years as he looked upon the boy who had fled Winterfell five years past. Yet Ned with a sense of sadness coupled with pride saw not the boy who had left so many years ago, bitter and angry at the world. No, Ned saw a man who looked fit for war... Ready to defend his family with all that he had.

"Jon," he whispered gently in relief and surprise.

Bann Wilder felt his eyes widen in terror, a message from Lord Viserys sent shortly before his demise thundering through his ears like a drum as he scampered backwards, falling to the floor as his boot slipped in the still warm blood of his companions. He clawed at the stone floor, desperately trying to put distance between himself and the black armored Jon Snow.

Bann scampered all the way to the fireplace, spinning sharply as he saw the man's cold eyes fixed solely upon him. Bann lifted his arm, the sleeve of his shirt soaked with blood as he pointed a trembling finger at Jon. Fear, so true and cold was clear in the man's eyes that it deeply unnerved those watching for reasons they could not begin to fathom. Yet as they followed the trembling man's gaze, each wondered as to why Wilder seemed to fear Jon so. They needn't wait long, for Bann at that moment uttered his very last words.

"It's you," the traitor cried, his eyes wide as a dinner plate and very near frothing at the mouth. "The Black Wolf, the man who slew His Grace Viserys Targaryen!" Bann accused Jon, unaware of the crowd's reaction to such news. "The most feared assassin in all the lands of Essos and Westeros!"

Jon merely said nothing as the remaining conspirators quickly surrendered, knowing that they stood no chance against the man standing before them. The spectators merely gaped or gasped as they gazed upon Jon. All that came to an end however as Jon slowly began to move forward, propping his sword upon his pauldron as the hidden blade gleamed with a menacing light from the blood stained floor and the flash of lightning outside the shattered window. Rain water pooled at the young warrior's feet, washing away the steaming blood from his fallen foes that clung to his boots.

The soft splash of boot into water echoed in the din of the hall as Jon neared his true target like a specter of Death. Bann only whimpered, praying to the gods for a swift death. Ever so slowly Jon spoke, his voice ringing loud and clear in the stunned silence of the hall.

"You claim he was a King?" Jon asked coldly, eyes hard as Northern rock as memories of his time across the Narrow Sea came to life before his eyes. Images of a beautiful woman, with silvery hair and bright amethyst eyes staring back at him with joy and love. Yet those memories were tarnished by what came next, of a man with the same gentle features snarling in disgust until he screamed out in fear, as molten gold that bubbled and roiled was poured upon his head.

Jon in his anger began to snarl, the sound so menacing that it caused many within the hall to step back in fear, save for his siblings and the Lord Stark. Jon glared with utter loathing at Bann, slowly lowering his smoke colored blade to rest against the stone floor and grind against its ancient and worn surface. Sparks flew as he drew near, the sound of steel upon stone shrieking through the crowded hall. Bann stayed as he was, terrified as his eyes danced from Jon's face to the wicked Valyrian blade at his side.

"What King beats an innocent girl and torments his own flesh and blood for years on end!? What King sells his own sister to be raped by a man old enough to be her father every night! What King sits and mocks the world around him when he himself is nothing but a coward and unworthy of the very air he breathes!" Jon demanded hotly, eyes wild and flashing to a stark and vivid violet in the firelight. "I can tell you even now I wished I had not ended his life so quickly, if only to prolong his suffering. Something he rightly deserved!" Jon snarled as Bann only whimpered in response. Leaning down, Jon grabbed the front of Bann's cloak and savagely hauled the sniveling coward to his feet, using one arm to suspend the little bastard afloat as Jon aimed his sword to rest tip first at Bann's jugular.

Shaking the terrified man and horrifying the gaping crowd, Jon lowered Bann to eye level and growled, eyes flashing to an iridescent ice blue as frost seemed to form where his hand held Bann aloft.

"Tell me one good reason," Jon ordered firmly, his voice lowering into a harsh, dark tone. "Why I shouldn't just run my blade straight out the back of your skull, right here and now?" His eyes narrowed as he tightened his grip, a small part of him reveling in the whimpers and blubbering slurs that choked out from Bann's throat.

Ned unsteadily rose to his feet, gazing at Jon warily as he moved across the rain-soaked floor to stand behind him. Reaching out, Ned placed his hand atop Jon's shoulder, feeling the boy tense under his touch for a split moment until he realized it was only Ned.

"Let him go Jon," Ned pleaded, either ignoring or not seeing the slowly melting ice on Bann's collar. "He speaks of nothing but a twisted delusion centered on a dethroned, ignorant child." Jon seemed to ignore him, so Ned rose to his full height and tightened his grip on Jon's shoulder, getting the young man to finally turn and look at him.

Ned stared into the harsh grey eyes, their light a burning pyre of defiance and retribution, and growled in response to the perceived challenge, the Alpha of the pack bringing one of the more rowdy whelps to heel. "Put. Him. Down. Jon."

Jon showed nothing upon his face as he held his lord father's gaze. To the spectators, Jon seemed ready to ignore the obvious command. When, to their relief the anger and wrath vanished like the frost upon the morning grass in the young man's eyes as he gave Ned a stiff, barely noticeable nod.

Sighing through clenched teeth, Jon released Bann who curled into a ball in utter terror as tears streamed down his face. Slowly Jon lowered the blade, the tip coming to rest against the stone floor as the armored man clasped it in both hands. Just as his father did when giving out the King's justice to those who broke the laws of the North and the Realms. Jon spoke then, his voice not the warrior seen but a few moments ago... But that of a man in desperate need of rest and closure.

Jon bowed his head, his words echoing around the hall as the storm came to an end, revealing the pure night sky from the shattered window in all its glory. "In the name of Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North and Descendant of the First Men and as the son of the man you tried to kill, I hereby sentence you Bann Wilder... To death," he decreed, moving across the room to then kick a wooden bench across the floor with a great clatter, letting it fall with a great crash to rest level with Bann's chest posed by the fire.

Bann Wilder stayed silent as he slowly moved to his knees and lowered his head, accepting his fate. Closing his eyes as Jon moved to the left Bann offered no final words and no last thoughts, only waiting for the swing of the sword.

Jon never hesitated as he drew the sword on high in a clean arc… Before bringing it down in single cut as fire and blood shone upon its black blade. The only thing that remained in the hall that night... Was the sound of Bann Wilder's head hitting the stone floor with a great thud, as blood stained the floors from his limp body not a few feet away.

* * *

The next morning found many of the people of Winterfell wary as they travelled the muddy roads in great packs, news of the attempt on the Lord Stark's life and the return of his bastard son spreading like wildfire. The fairest of women, aged ten and seven and yet older still listened with great interest as the guards and maids regaled them with the story of how the bastard son had descended from the blackened and tumultuous skies like a vengeful shade, blades bared and ready to defend his father to his last breath. How he suffered not a wound and with the greatest of ease and grace slew those who sought to throw Winterfell into chaos in the name of the dead Beggar King.

Many had also heard from both their fathers and friends who worked within the keep of how the bastard had grown to look like a younger version of his father as well. Having become as handsome as the knights of old; or so some of the maids claimed.

Jon himself cared not for any of these ridiculous tales as he sat atop the thatched roof of Mikken's shop, gently laying a bag of gold dragons into his belt as the ring of the hammer upon the great anvil echoed beneath him. His hood had been drawn up and shielded his face from the biting wind, the finely sharpened dragonglass dagger he possessed being thrown from hand to hand in elegant arcs before him. The obsidian blade glinting in the morning sun as the young warrior gazed out among the crowds with a cold look in his eyes. A smirk suddenly found its way to his lips as he spoke up, seemingly to thin air.

"You have to be just a little quieter than that to sneak up on me little brother," he said pointedly, only to hear a groan of defeat and the shift of stone and shingle as his younger brother Bran moved to sit next to him. Bran sat heavily with a huff, wrapping his arms around bent knees as he fixed his gaze forward like his brother. Jon gave the boy a sidelong look and waited for Bran to speak, knowing that the younger boy would not seek him out this early without reason. However when none such reason came, Jon was content to sit in blessed silence until Bran felt ready to speak. If there was one thing Jon prided himself on, it was the patience he had achieved during his time travelling the lands. Which at its best he supposed, was second to none.

The two remained still in the peaceful silence, the sporadic flutter of Jon's furs and hood all that could be heard by the two as the sun continued to rise above them. After waiting a few minutes longer, Jon turned his head ever so slightly to look at Bran silently, as the younger boy continued to gaze out into empty skies. The pale-blue eyes of House Tully that all but one of the true born Stark children had inherited now narrowed and focused. Gently coughing to get his brother's attention, Jon nearly laughed aloud at seeing Bran sputter and flush with heat at being caught daydreaming so easily.

"Interesting thoughts to share with me Bran?" the older boy asked, the hood hiding his mirth filled eyes from view. Leaving naught but his smirking mouth free to the light of day and Bran's scrutiny.

Bran shook his head stiffly, the long locks of dark auburn flying in a brutal wind that swept the land in a single beat of the heart. "Father has requested we travel with him on an errand," the boy explained without giving Jon a single glance. "A man of the Watch was caught by the guards this morning." Bran said, unable to notice the ever so slight tensing of Jon's body at the words. "A deserter if what I learned from Robb and Theon Greyjoy is true," the boy explained with a shrug, the warm and thick furs hiding the gesture almost completely from Jon's keen eyes.

Jon however said nothing, as he stilled his body and mind while latching on to the brief flickers of surprise and shock that were quick to yield to his will. A feeling of unease settled in his gut as dark grey eyes gazed out towards the horizon, narrowed and sharp. But Jon stood nonetheless, sheathing the dragonglass without a second glance and striding to the edge of the roof with determined strides while his boots remained silent upon the shingle and stone.

Turning back to glance over his shoulder Jon gave Bran a brief smile before tilting his head towards the stables, a small yet cocky grin on his lips. "Best not to keep the Lord Stark waiting then," he said with a small chuckle. Jon then sprinted for the edge of the roof without a word. Bran watched horrified as his brother jumped, an eagle's cry shattering the silent din of Winterfell as Jon fell to the earth and landed in a bale of hay down below.

* * *

The group of men travelled on horseback but an hour to reach the ancient stone square from which their ancestors, the First Men had brought down the Northern King's justice to those deserving of it in front of their heart tree. A sacred place to the Stark family for centuries that Bran had not seen until this day, with the skies cloaked in grey and black clouds as harsh cold winds swept across the knotted hills and coarse grass. Summer was receding faster than ever, and soon enough the Words of House Stark would come to pass.

Bran remained blissfully ignorant of the significance pertaining to the clouds and the wind as he sat astride his faithful pony, a fitting beast for a boy of ten years. The young boy looking about in silent wonder and awe at the place as old as Westeros itself slowly came into view. Bran soon pulled the cloak and furs adorning his body tighter still as a harsh wind blew past, unbelieving of how his elder brother Jon could sit so still in nothing but his armor and cotton robes in peace. Jon in fact had his hood down and the black stallion he rode trotting along at a leisured pace, his face blank as Ned lead the party onward. Each man of the party, including Lord Eddard Stark seemed to feel the biting chill of the wind, but each were as surprised as Bran that Jon himself seemed unaffected. Theon Greyjoy, the ward of Lord Stark and heir to the seat on the Iron Islands was quick to notice this little fact as well, and the first to give word to each man's thoughts.

"By the gods and all below them Snow, how in the hells do you sit there as if we aren't close to a frozen grave?" the boy asked, his dark hair whipping about as they neared the heart tree. His normally cocky grin replaced by a look of frustration and unease as Theon closed the black and gold cloak adorned by his own family sigil closer to him. Jon only smirked as Theon did, his eyes betraying his mirth and joy at a jest no man but himself could hear and know.

Jon looked at Theon in mock pity, his words simple and swift. "I sit here Greyjoy, in such obvious ease since I have tasted colder winds and far harsher lands than this," Jon explained, catching the attention of the bannermen and even the almost undetectable tilt of Ned's head as he spoke. The banners of House Stark, a grey direwolf running across an ice-white field flowing above them. "Once you have tasted the lands beyond the Wall and stood atop its frozen walks, then my answers you will have Greyjoy."

Each man was silent after that, all perplexed and unsettled by the seemingly calm and unflinching countenance of the Bastard of Winterfell. Yet each also knew of the other name Jon had served under these last five years, and his feats across Westeros and beyond the Narrow Sea. The Black Wolf, a famed sellsword of no family or sigil. Known only to those not worthy of his expensive talents by his dragonglass dagger, twin wrist blades along with his armor of black and grey.

Made famous for the murder of Viserys Targaryen and all those loyal to the Mad King's son in their beds, leaving not but the children and the women alive. From that night on the Wolf had lived in infamy, having earned King Robert's respect for having slain the, "Gods forsaken and bastard of a Beggar King."

Not to say that Jon's actions in slaying the traitor under the service of the now dead Targaryen heir had not garnered much attention back home. The ease with which he had fought had made Robb privately thankful that he had not dueled Jon in years. Bran however was utterly enthralled at seeing the skill his brother possessed to possibly rival the knights of old. Yet both boys were unafraid, nor really bothered at having seen their brother kill. Robb had seen the justice of the King lain out before numerous times in his life, while Bran knew that his elder brothers were trained to fight, and if the situation called for it... Kill.

It was only a simple matter of remembering that it was Jon underneath the cold mask. Their brother, who would sooner take his own life then raise his blade against Winterfell and its people.

The party was however broken from their inner thoughts as they arrived at the sacred tree, the guardsmen attending to the deserter standing tall as their Lord rode towards them. Bran focused on the prisoner, unnerved as he saw the man hung from the wall by hand and foot. He looked old and thin to Bran's eyes, no taller than Robb if he had to guess.

Only Bran then noticed how Jon focused solely on the deserter, his eyes masked and blank as ice, sharp and flaring to a stormy grey. Bran slowly turned to see his father dismount, Robb moving to rest beside the younger Stark as Jon moved to Bran's left. Ned moved forward and motioned for the guards to bring forth the man cloaked in black. His furs were greasy and ragged with his ears and a finger having been lost to frostbite. His eyes were wild and unfocused, darting across all their faces until the light of sanity returned to him as he settled on Jon.

The man once cut free fell to his knees and pressed his head against the solid earth, his hands crossed and flat on the grass.

"Forgive me Lord Snow, for forsaking my duty to you and the Watch." The man said, unmindful as the rest of those gathered looked between the kneeling man and Jon Snow in bewilderment. Jon said nothing, his face blank and under what Bran then deemed as the face of the Black Wolf. The same as their father, whose face now was not of their loving father. But of the Warden of the North Eddard Stark; the Lord and Ruler of Winterfell. Eddard said nothing as well, only gesturing for the guards to lift the man and drag him to the tree. Raising his left hand, Theon strode forth revealing a simple cross shaped hilt, bound in fine leather and holding it fast for the Lord of Winterfell.

Bran gazed at the hilt of the sword in wonder, "Ice," it was called. The blade made of spell-forged Valyrian steel wielded only by the hand of the Lord Stark. In a great flourish, Ned unsheathed the blade, letting it fall to rest tip first into the ground. Its blade was the color of black-grey smoke, and as wide as a man's hand; its height greater than even Bran. Ned clasped his hands upon the pommel, resting his head on his intertwined hands, eyes closed as the deserter rested his head down and released a shaky breath.

Jon moved forward and leaned down to whisper in Bran's ear, a hand firm upon the boy's shoulders in a comforting gesture. "Hold the pony fast Bran," he said with his eyes focused on their father's back. "But do not look away. Father will know if you do."

Ned stepped forward then and said, "In the name of Robert of the House Baratheon, the First of his Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm by the word of Eddard of the House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, I do sentence you to die."

He lifted the blade high and, in a single swing brought it down in a flash of steel as the deserter's head flew through the air to land on the hill. His still warm blood steaming in the cold winds as his head came to rest by Theon's horse. Theon dismounted with a sneer, walking forward with a cold laugh escaping his throat as he placed his boot atop the head and kicked it away.

"Ass," Jon muttered darkly as he glared at Theon's retreating back, leaning back as he gently squeezed Bran's shoulder. "You did well, Bran, far better than I or Robb did our first time seeing a man die," he admitted quietly as he moved the horse to follow their father, Robb not far behind. Bran moved to follow them and moved ahead of the party, his pony struggling to keep up with Robb's and Jon's larger and more powerful war horses. Robb stood tall in the saddle, broad and strong with the same fair-skin, auburn hair and blue eyes of the Tully family. While Jon could not be or look more different than his elder brother. He was lean of build with black hair and grey eyes that hardened to a soulless purple-black and with what Bran had seen last night, he was far more graceful and quick then Robb could ever be.

"The deserter died well," Robb said breaking the silence between the brothers. He looked at Jon, seeming to ignore Bran a little as the younger Stark looked at Jon as well. "He had bravery even to meet his end." Jon scoffed then, his hood now drawn up and shielding his face from view. Robb glanced at Jon, his brows furrowed in confusion as Bran too mirrored the Young Wolf's expression.

"It was not bravery dear brother, but fear that took his life," Jon said solemnly his hands gently flicking the reins as they trotted over the small bridge that ran across the river running through the valley. Suddenly Jon stopped. His hands at his sides and his head shifting from left to right. Robb cautiously moved closer, knowing that if something had garnered his brother's attention then perhaps it best be prepared for the worst.

"Jon?" the heir to the North asked lowly, gently moving his hand to rest on the iron sword at his hip. Bran moved closer as well, fear slowly creeping into the pit of his stomach as he quickly grabbed the hilt of a small dagger his father had gifted him with on his last name day.

Neither brother was suitably prepared for when Jon suddenly burst forth, his stallion launching forward and approaching a forest near the river. His black clothes vanishing into shadow as he entered the trees. Robb turned sharply towards Bran, his eyes alight in worry as he raced after his fool of his brother.

"Bran go and get father, I'm going after the bloody fool," he snarled, the horses echoing cry catching the attention of Eddard and the bannermen thirty yards away. Each seeing the lack of one Jon Snow and the fleeing back of their Lord's eldest son into the dark woods. Ned was the most affected, a feeling of dread filling his gut as he watched his son dart into the wood, old tales of his own childhood rearing their head of beasts and bears prowling the forests that grew to the size of a small cabin.

Ned snapped the reigns, his own horse, and a faithful grey mare from his campaign days rearing up and darting towards the still and silent Bran. The pounding of hooves on stone echoed in Ned's ears as fear settled in his heart. He would not lose Jon again, not after getting him back for less than a day. However it seemed all for naught, as Robb soon burst forth from the brush of the woods, his eyes alight not in fear or worry but excitement and joy.

This alone was enough to settle both Ned and Bran's worries as Ned soon slowed to a steady trot and stopped beside the young Bran. Father and son watching as Robb soon slowed to a stop before them, a grin stretched across his lips with joy alight in his blue eyes.

"Father Come quick, you have to see this!" Robb said breathlessly, his hair riffled and thrown back from riding through the wood at such speed. Bran and Ned only shared a glance before the Quiet Wolf led his two sons into the wood, a feeling of unease settling in his gut.

The three Starks soon moved through the green wood, steam rising off the hot springs within as Robb directed them down the path he had taken. And after a few minutes ride, the three came upon Jon standing next to a great beast, his hood down and hand on his hip as he glanced down at something beside the large grey furred shape. Ned brought his horse to a halt and slowly dismounted, hand on the hilt of Ice as he drew near, unbelieving of seeing the beast for what it was. And it stunned the man more than words could describe.

"Direwolf," Ned murmured, his hand slowly falling to rest at his side as he slowly leaned down to examine the dead beast in greater detail. A single broken piece of antler was lodged deep into the throat of the direwolf; blood dried and caked onto its fur surrounding the obvious means of demise. However, that was not what drew Ned's eyes. It was the five pups, each no bigger than a few month old pups from the castle. Each varying shades of grey and black, their eyes closed tight and huddled close together for warmth as they struggled to reach their mothers teats. The sound of branches and twigs snapping underfoot reached Ned's ears as his other two sons came to stand beside him, Bran having immediately reached out and plucked up one of the pups into his arms.

Bran stared at the pup in pure adoration and Ned knew that he had a dilemma on his hands. The issue became particularly clear to Ned when Robb too reached out and grabbed the largest of the litter, a dark grey one with a white underbelly and stared at it in wonder and tenderness he had rarely seen in his eldest son. The pups whimpered and yelped, tumbling over each other as they tried to get their mother's last ounces of milk in their hunger. Jon however to Ned's surprise said nothing, only leaning down to gently lift up another of the pups, this one a slinky grey; a bitch if Ned guessed right.

"They shouldn't be south of the Wall," Jon muttered, his brows scrunched together in confusion as he gently lay the pup to the ground. He glanced at his father and Ned shared the same unease he saw reflected in Jon's own grey eyes. This was an omen, but what it could mean either good or bad Ned did not know.

"They don't belong here," Ned said at last, standing tall and moving to take another of the pups. "Better a quick death," he said as he drew a dagger from his cloak.

Jon instead saw the look of fear upon Bran's face and knew he had to act quickly. A compulsion is the closest he could describe to what he said next, to do something good for his younger brother after missing so much over the years.

"Lord Stark." He called out loudly, stopping Ned short as the entire party turned to look at Jon. "There are five pups," the young man said lowly, casting his gaze over towards Robb and Bran for a moment before he looked his father in the eye. Ned saw not but solemn black in those piercing eyes. "You have five children, and the direwolf is the sigil of your house," Jon paused as he gently moved to stand next to Bran and gently laid a hand atop the boy's thin shoulders. "They were meant to have them."

Ned seemed conflicted as he spoke next, his question focused solely upon Jon. "And what of you Jon? Will you not take one of your own?"

Jon said nothing, his eyes only fading to a darker black ringed by amethyst as his voice became far more frigid and clipped. "I'm not a Stark."

Ned grimaced at that comment, his face however remained blank as he nodded stiffly before he turned and looked at Robb and Bran as he passed.

"You will train them yourselves, you will feed them yourselves," he paused and his tone took on a commanding timbre when he said, "And if they die… You will bury them yourselves." Ned clasped his cloak closed once more and strode to the horses, his back turned to his three sons as he sighed and swiftly mounted the grey mare. Bran and Robb both looked at their brother in awe, watching as Jon simply said nothing as he moved to gather up the pups. Robb quickly moved to help, silently laying claim to his own direwolf by taking the large grey one for himself. The largest of the pups was soon joined by two of his siblings, the three of them nestled carefully within Robb's cloak as they chirped and yelped for their mother.

Bran took one that was a mixture of grey and dark brown along with the last one which was flecked in grey and black. The three then moved to the horses to catch up with Ned and the party, when Jon suddenly stopped, a gentle rustle catching his ear as he turned to the left. The brush near the base of the tree having parted to show brightest white. Jon moved as if possessed, his gaze nearly blank as he gently knelt and grabbed the white colored wolf pup. The small beast had its eyes wide open, the entirety of iris and pupil a dark red and yet inherently wise as the two locked gazes. Blood red stared into darkest grey for a mere moment before Jon felt a small smile grace his lips as the pup gently licked his nose and wagged his tail.

"It seems," Jon mused to himself with a grin as the pup slowly pawed at his face gently. "That this one is mine," he said happily as he gently placed the little pup into the fabric of his cotton robes, the beasts little head poking out and gazing all around in an intelligent manner as Jon moved towards his large stallion. Jon then mounted his horse and rode like the wind, his black hood and clothes a speck upon the horizon all the way to Winterfell.

* * *

A few weeks after the parties return to Winterfell, final preparations were being put into place for King Robert's arrival; however all noticed the sudden, or in some cases gradual shift to a cheerful demeanor in the Stark children and even the Lord Stark himself. And many could take no fewer than two guesses as to why. Each of the children now being accompanied by a great direwolf, the loyal beasts proud and protective of their masters.

The Beta of the pack was Grey Wind; the strong and true beast of Lord Robb. Lady came next; the most demure and graceful of the wolves for the Lady Sansa, Nymeria; the fiery she-wolf and brawler of the litter for the Lady Arya, Lord Bran's still nameless yet truly and heart-wrenchingly loyal beast, and the young Lord Rickon's newest and indeed closest companion Shaggydog. But none were more noticeable than Jon Snow's white as fresh snow direwolf, which had grown like a foul weed to become larger than his litter mates in nary a few weeks. The quietest and most powerful by far of the lot, Ghost as he was named by Lord Stark's bastard was a great and powerful presence in Winterfell even on his own. The other wolves would circle around and at times seek out the larger wolf should something be troubling their individual wards. Ghost would utter not a sound, only turn his head and find his master no matter where Jon stood. The Alpha of the pack would then only watch as his master vanished into shadow, the individual wolves for the separate Stark children close behind.

But that was not all that brought a change. It was Jon himself that brought the greatest and indeed deeply welcomed change. Lord Stark was out of the Keep far more often than ever before and could often be found training with his sons, including Jon in the yard when he had the time. He smiled far more in the presence of his family and seemed relieved that his wayward bastard son had come back at long last.

Lords Robb, Bran and Rickon were nearly attached to Jon's hip or ear all hours of the day; Robb laughing and talking to his brother as if Jon had never left and often sparring with him. Yet to the people's immense surprise and Robb's own resignation, Jon proved to be a far greater swordsman than his older brother. Often it was Robb on the receiving end of their bouts, with Jon giving instruction as they sparred to correct any missteps made by the lordling as they sparred. Robb had been neither jealous nor angry, only determined to match his younger brother in skill, his brother's legacy and the legends of his feats acting as fuel to the fire.

Young Bran and Rickon were thankful for Jon's teachings and stories of his years outside the castle walls, with Bran learning more effective techniques in order to climb while Rickon became interested in learning how to track and hunt. The two from then on constantly badgered the young man on his adventures, comparing their brother to the knights of old. Jon would merely laugh and begin his tale, often having the young Rickon perched on his shoulders with Bran at his side.

Ladies Arya and Sansa were in the eyes of the people divided on the matter of their brother. Arya was always speaking to Jon and appeared quite happy at seeing someone of the family with the same North like features of their father that the two shared. The Lady Sansa however, while happy at having her brother home safe was torn on the matter. Her personality was close enough to the Lady Catelyn that she did in fact judge and believe Jon to be beneath her for being a bastard. Yet Jon did not seem bothered by this. He seemed to understand the situation placed upon the young girl's shoulders rather well, being the oldest daughter and the prodigy of the Lady Catelyn. Yet Jon talked to her whenever she approached him, treating Sansa with the proper respect that he reserved for the ladies he had met during his journey.

But even Sansa saw the utter loathing her mother possessed for her brother, the Lady Stark's animosity for the young man clear for all of Winterfell to see. She would not speak to the boy, either giving him cold glances and harsh words at every turn, but they seemed to flow off Jon's shoulders like water.

Yet today, a week before King Robert's arrival, things were about to take a turn that none dared to believe. Least of all the man at the very center of it.

Jon walked along the hallowed stone halls of Winterfell, Ghost trotting along at his hip as the young man's mind puzzled over his unexpected summons. He had been in the parlor, carving a wooden direwolf figurine for Sansa, colored the same shade of grey as his sister's direwolf and in deep thought as the carving knife he had borrowed from Mikken flowed across the wood. When he had been suddenly interrupted by Rickon bolting into the room, Shaggydog close behind as the young boy came to rest at Jon's side. The young boy was silent for a time, his breath coming in quick pants and face flushed from running through the halls.

Rickon had managed to gather enough breath to speak as he explained that their father had called for Jon's presence immediately, saying that none could get the Lord Stark to speak as to why he specified for Jon to see him. Jon had gone to his room, donning his signature black and grey leather armor and robes, the hood down for the moment as his black curls fell to partially shield his eyes from view. His weapons were hung at his hips, the hidden blades safely tucked under the leather bracers and grey fur lining. Once he arrived at his father's study, Jon raised a hand and wrapped gently upon the soft pine three times. Ghost made not a sound, only tilting his head at the door then at his master as Ned's voice echoed from within.

"Come in Jon," he said, Jon curious as to why the words seemed to be distant and if he were right… Sad. Gently pushing the door wide, Jon stepped inside, his eyes immediately darting around for any possible escape routes and entrances that he could use to his advantage. An old habit he had picked up chasing the Dothraki horde of Khal Drogo, and when he had finally met _her_ face to face. Yet those were memories and deals made to worry about another time. Right now, he was more focused on his lord father standing by the fire, his cloak and furs gone to be replaced by fine leather as the ancestral sword of House Stark, "Ice," was sheathed and laid across a seemingly comfortable high-backed chair on Ned's right.

The two men said nothing, memories of the last time they both met in this very same room echoing within their minds. Ghost was still silent, only moving to rest by Ned's feet, laying his head over crossed paws as his blood-red eyes bored into the dancing flames of the slowly dying fire.

Jon having grown tired of the silence crossed his arms and moved to lean against his father's desk and asked, "You called for me father?" Jon's eyes bore into Ned's back and saw all. A great tension dominated his father's stance, Ned's shoulders tensed and drawn together with his breath forcibly steady, a technique Jon had seen his father use to calm himself while growing up.

Ned after a time slowly turned; his eyes filled with a silent grief and resignation. Emotions that deeply surprised Jon. For they were not things often expressed by the Warden of the North, if at all in any living thing's company. The two stared each other down, grey meeting grey as Ned sighed, setting his jaw and determination replacing the sad light in his eyes.

Ned motioned his head to the chair across from him by the fire, and Jon, getting the gesture moved silently to sit in the warm chair. The hard oak gleaming in the light reflected off of Jon's armor and weapons as it creaked beneath him. Ned then took his own seat, gently grasping Ice and laying it across his lap, the cross guard glowing from a fresh polish.

"Yes. I did Jon," Ned said, his tone solemn and soft, the gentle tone mixing with the odd crackle from the fire. Ned leaned back into the chair then, his face looking far more solemn and aged than Jon had ever seen. His father's once proudly trimmed black beard was now a mix of white and black, making Ned look far older than his forty years. His face as well was far more gaunt and long then the man who had helped led a Rebellion against the Targaryen Dynasty.

_'Her family,'_ Jon thought morbidly to himself as the image of a beautiful woman with silver hair and bright amethyst eyes appeared before him. Jon was quickly able to break himself from those thoughts and refocused on his father, whose gaze was fixed to the blade at Jon's hip.

"Valyrian Steel," Ned said at last, his hand gently caressing the hilt of his own spell-forged blade. "Although... Not one I am familiar with, particularly that direwolf pommel," he said lowly with a pointed tilt of his head, a sly grin growing on Ned's face as Jon shrugged in response while stifling his own chuckle.

"I don't suppose you would, since it once belonged to the House Mormont before it came into my hands," Jon admitted laying a hand atop the snarling stone wolf head, his thumb tracing the garnet eyes that bled red light from the fires glow. Ned seemed surprised at the response, his eyes now piercing and sharp as he studied the blade.

"The famed Longclaw of Bear Island," he murmured before glancing at Jon. "How did it come to be in your possession?"

"Commander Mormont of the Watch gave it to me for saving his life during my training with Uncle Benjen up at the Wall," Jon explained, slowly drawing the smoke colored blade and letting it shine in the firelight. The keen edge gleaming as it seemed ready for blood. "It is my greatest possession, beside my master's old hidden blades and the cloak you gave me long ago," Jon said as he twirled the blade and gently returned it to its sheath, the keen sound of sharpened steel being drawn echoing around them. Ned said nothing as he continued to gently run his hand along Ice's hilt, the leather worn and strong despite all the Lord Stark's that had wielded it before Ned. It was here that Ned finally approached what he had dreaded telling Jon for so long.

"Jon," Ned said eyes reproachful and kind. "Do you remember the last time we spoke in this very room?" he asked, visibly satisfied at seeing the melancholy expression on Jon's face. For it was that argument five years ago that had made Jon leave the safety of Winterfell's walls and travel the world in search of glory and honor.

"Aye," Jon said firmly, his eyes cast to the fire as Ghost moved to rest his head atop Jon's knee. The young man began to run his hands through the thick and long coat on the great wolf, the white coat now a brilliant orange from the fire's glow. "I was being a right prat wasn't I?" Jon asked jokingly, a small smirk full of mirth lighting up his normally grim features.

Ned shook his head, guilt clear in his eyes as he leaned forward and stared Jon in the eyes. "You had every right to ask me that after so long... And in my haste to protect you my ignorance to your grief I nearly drove you away," the man said guiltily, eyes fading to a dull grey. Ned shook his head as he continued to speak. "Now I fear I may not get another chance to say what I must, lest it die with me." He said gravely, looking all the more akin to a weary and tired old man.

Ned however smoothed his features, eyes hard and determined as Jon felt an aura of strength surround his father. "You asked me, on that night five years ago who your mother is..." Here the Warden of the North paused, gathering his wit and courage to finally relinquish this last secret. Yet as he stared at the man before him, Ned knew that the time wasn't right. He did not know how he knew... He just simply did.

_'He can't know... Not yet. I'm so sorry Jon.'_ Ned thought before he slowly took a steadying breath and regained his composure. Ned then licked his lips before he spoke. "Her name... Was Ashara Dayne." Ned paused here as the words next uttered caught in his throat, the crushing guilt and long since buried grief he had carried causing a single tear to break the cold as stone façade he wore. He closed his eyes and bowed his head in grief as the promise he made years ago echoed in his head.

_'Please brother... Protect him... Promise me Ned!' _Ned would not condemn Jon to a life shrouded in fear if he could help it.

"And she was the love of my life." Ned choked out, voice grief-stricken and awash with guilt unfathomable as he thought of the woman he had loved, haunted in his dreams by the knowledge that he had been forced to share his life with a woman he had never wanted for his bed... And not with the woman he had desired above all others.

Jon stayed silent as stone; his eyes just as dark and blank as volcanic rock as his bangs obscured his left eye from view. The voice of his late mentor echoed in his mind like a drum beat to the thrum of war.

'_I realized long ago that it will take time, that the road ahead is long and shrouded in darkness. It is a road that will not always take me where I wish to go – and I doubt I will live to see it end. But I will travel down it nonetheless. A hard lesson and an even more difficult philosophy to fully understand, but it is crucial in what I am trying to teach you. For I see a great destiny before you Kahòntsi Yoweras, and it saddens me to know that I will not be there to see it to its end. All I can do is help to shape and guide you down the first few steps, until you must stand alone against the tides and shadows. But above all else understand this. Trust in yourself and you will never be defeated. Trust in those who care for you and you will never be alone. Fight for them and all who would seek to take shelter under your shadow, no matter the cost. For if you don't… No one else will.'_

His mentor had taught Jon many things, both of the ways of the warrior and the brotherhood shared between those who had survived terrible tragedy together. And Jon would always be thankful for it, silently bowing his head and stilling his heart and mind as he let the dark emotions fade away. He sent a silent prayer to the old gods for his mentor's safety and wealth in the realm beyond, for it was truly deserved. And now that the demons had settled, Jon knew which question to ask, the one that had plagued him and tormented him the longest of them all.

"Did she love me?" Jon asked quietly, looking at his father's eyes. And Ned was struck dumb as his own grey eyes bored into a now haunting violet. The young man having let the mask he had worn so many times before chip but a fraction, revealing the desperate child buried beneath the ice and snow of the North and the trials Jon had faced over the years.

Ned seemed regretfully surprised at the question; grief and remorse clear in the elder man's eyes. "Of course she did!" Ned said vehemently, his expression now shifting into its own blank mask. "She loved you from the moment you opened your eyes and you took your first breath of life in the world." Ned then gave a deep sigh as he gently moved Ice to rest against the arm of his chair.

"And it is because you are ready to know the truth... That I am doing something I should have done long ago," Ned said rising to his full height and seeming to tower over Jon. Yet the pride he felt was soured by the taste of ash in his mouth at the last in a lifetime of lies he had told the young man.

Jon was slightly confused until he saw his father's hand gesture for Jon to rise. And as Jon rose, Ned reached back and in one swift motion and the clear ring of steel bared Ice to the world, its own sharp edge of smoky black glinting menacingly in the light.

"When you were born and I retrieved you for the ride to Winterfell, I asked only one thing of Robert before I returned here," Ned uttered barely above a whisper as Jon hung to every word. "That when the time was right... Like the ancient Northern Kings of old, I would possess the power and right to legitimize you, my son into our House as you rightly deserved." Ned said with pride clear in his eyes, the iris a now clear and strong stormy grey. Slowly and ever so carefully Ned raised Ice, hands clasped upon the pommel as he bowed his head slightly.

"In the name of the First Men, and the Old Gods of our ancestors, I Eddard Stark, the Warden of the North, name you Jon Stark. A true blood son of the House of the Wolf and recognized of the House of the Stars," Ned intoned; his voice strong and commanding with pride shining bright in the old man's eyes as he raised Ice on high. Jon slowly fell to his knees, a sense of great joy burning bright in his chest. Ice once held aloft slowly dipped down to first rest against Jon's left shoulder, then carefully moved to his right.

Ned then reached deep within himself, calling upon the wolf in his blood as he invoked the powers thought lost to the family for millennia. Jon stared in awe as his father's eyes glowed a brilliant ice-blue as frost surrounded the two men, vanishing in an instant as Ned let the power die; the little ceremony complete. "Now... Arise Black Wolf of the North, to take your place in our family as a true Stark, and live on to add to the legacy of our ancestors."

Jon in a slight daze rose to his feet, steady and unshakable as he reached his full height. And it was with a slight jolt that he realised he was now almost eye-to-eye with his father. Pride and joy echoed in the young man's eyes as they lightened to a stormy grey, a soft grin on Jon's lips as Ghost rose to stand beside him. The large direwolf pup stood against his master's knees, the large beast now coming up to Jon's thigh as it gazed up almost knowingly at the elder Stark. Ned smiled gently as he moved Ice to rest against the floor and laid a hand on Jon's shoulders. Perhaps one truth would be able to lessen the blow when the lies were finally shattered.

"You may not have her name, but you have her blood," Ned said gently, eyes a soft shade of grey as he squeezed Jon's shoulder in pride. "She would be proud of you, just as I am of the man you have become Jon Stark. Never forget that." Ned told Jon, who only nodded as Ned then released Jon's shoulder and sheathed Ice, moving to rest in his chair. The light atmosphere however soon vanished once Ned took to his chair. Ned looked upon Jon now not as his father, but as the Lord of Winterfell. In turn Jon donned the mask of the Wolf, curious but restraining himself to let his Lord explain.

"My lord, does something trouble you?" he asked laying a hand atop Longclaw as he shifted his stance to one of attention; eyes forward and unwavering.

Ned sighed as his idle hands began to trace over the worn and weathered arm of his chair. "It astounds me how perceptive you have become Jon," he remarked casually eyes focused on a piece of parchment atop his desk. Lifting his hand Ned gestured for Jon to step forward, the piece of parchment in hand. "However I am also quite thankful for it in situations such as this. Take it," he said as he held the strange document aloft.

Hesitantly, Jon reached out and grasped the document, opening it with great care and began to read, his father's words drowned out as Jon read more and more lines. "I received that letter from Prince Doran Martell, the elder brother of Ashara's closest friend the late Princess Elia. It said that in light of recent events and movements in Essos, he has deigned miraculously to offer his daughter Arianne's hand in marriage to a member of House Stark, to strengthen ties between Dorne and the North."

Ned's eyes grew as sharp as fine etched steel, boring into Jon with an intensity not seen in the Quiet Wolf since the days of Robert's Rebellion; narrowing as Jon continued to read, visibly tensing as he read the last few lines of the letter...and the signatures underneath.

Ned continued as Jon slowly lowered the letter to hang from limp fingers. "Doran was able to discover the truth of your parentage through spies and guards that your mother used to ensure we were never disturbed, and in light of this Prince Martell asked for one Stark in particular and only one for his daughter… You."

Silence echoed between father and son as Jon glanced upon the stone beneath his boots, mind a whirl with excitement and an eagerness he last remembered beyond the Wall. Yet as he took control of his will once more, Jon lifted his head and met the eyes of his father, stormy grey pools now sharp and clear as Northern skies.

"What do you want me to do," Jon asked, his stance doing a complete shift, going from shocked to being composed in an instant as the Wolf took over. Ned was honest as he gave Jon his answer.

"This is too good an opportunity to pass up," here Ned paused as he tried to gauge Jon's reaction to the news, only to continue when he got nothing out of him. "You are the only viable option, being born of both the North and the Deep South your familial ties to both Dorne and to the Starks can assure no further hostility, particularly since you will become the consort of the ruler of Dorne once Doran passes on."

Ned sighed as he sat back rubbing a hand over his temple. "I know I am asking much of you my son, but I would rather send you to Dorne and be close to part of your family at the least then have you die alone or marry a woman here of the North who has dreams of seeking to usurp your brother Robb through you."

Ned sighed and waved his hand, wishing to be alone to deal with another sin to stain his soul. "I will announce your legitimization this evening, but be wary Jon," Ned warned. Eyes focused on the flames and the fine bottle of summerwine atop the mantle. "There are others both here and beyond our borders that will not take too kindly to me having claimed you fully into House Stark, or of the alliance between us and the Dornish. Particularly if the knowledge of you being the Black Wolf ever reaches some...unfriendly ears."

Jon scoffed then, eyes rolling in exasperation as he moved to the door, Ghost padding along silently behind him. Without looking over his shoulder once his hand grasped the handle Jon said, "They will soon learn that this Wolf is not without its claws or fangs father, just as you shouldn't," gently opening and closing the door behind him as Jon made his way back to finishing the project for Sansa, hoping to sort out his thoughts on what would change his own plans in a way he had never expected.

While in the study, Ned sat in silence only in the company of the crackling flames until he reached to the side and gently pulled a single piece of parchment, adorned with the sigils of House Dayne, Stark and Martell. Ned sighed heavily as he rose from his chair and grabbed a pen and an inkwell off the end table near his desk, signing the contract and sealing it with both the House Seal and that of the Ancient Kings of the North. Whistling sharply, a raven black as sin flew in from the solitary window and waited patiently for the letter. Deftly tying the letter to the beast's leg it took off in a flutter of silent wings, a black speck across the skies. Now, Ned could only hope that Catelyn would not hate him for what he had done. And that his dear sister Lyanna could forgive him for keeping the truth from her son just a little longer.

* * *

The next morning found the castle with a sense of urgency not seen since the Greyjoy Rebellion. Yet this mattered little for Ned Stark as he stood overlooking the training yard, watching on with pride as his son Bran held onto a fresh made yew bow to practice his archery. Jon stood silent over the boy's shoulder and occasionally whispered into the young lordling's ears. Ned watched as Bran tried time after time and noted that while slowly, his arrows were beginning to draw ever closer to the center of the target Jon had set up early that morning. However, Robb and Rickon's arrival accompanied by their wolves, caused Bran's last shot to veer far to the side and high. Skipping over the stone wall and vanishing into the trees. Robb laughed heartily as Rickon giggled at the look of dismay on Bran's face. Jon only chuckled a little before moving and kneeling to talk to Bran.

Whatever was said soon made Bran nod as he took aim and notched a fresh arrow. Ned could hear Jon giving him instruction even from the small balcony.

"Relax your bow arm, and don't think too much Bran. Let your instincts guide your shot," Jon toned, his voice solid and strong, much like how Jon Arryn had been for Ned and Robert as children, learning the arts of war and other things little lords needed to rule.

Bran seemed to take confidence from his brother's words, his jaw set firm and determined as he raised the bow far steadier then he had before. His arrow drew back with nary a sound, smooth and constant until in a flash, Bran let it fly. The arrow flew straight and true, burying up to the mid-shaft until it stuck fast in the target, only a foot off the center. Robb and Rickon ceased their laughing in an instant as Jon only clapped before moving to place a hand on Bran's shoulders.

"Well done brother, far better than when me and Robb started at your age," Jon said honestly, impressed and proud of his little brother. Bran seemed for all the world far more excited than he had ever been when practicing archery, knowing he had done better than even his elder brothers. However Jon's next words brought the ecstatic boy to heel. "Yet do not let one small success spell your victory," Jon said sagely, his words actually catching Robb and Rickon's ears as well. "You must strive to be better day after day, for one day you will meet a warrior better than you, and it could mean your doom. Never be content to be competent Bran, you've the talent and the time to be much more than that," Jon's eyes had glazed over then, the dark grey iris now a bleak black as Jon seemed lost in memories best not spoken of. Yet soon after his eyes regained their warmth and pride as Jon ruffled Bran's long locks and turned towards the keep, Ghost rising to follow his master. "Keep practicing Bran, you may make a marksman yet," Jon said aloud, his voice carrying over the courtyard.

Yet Jon decided to show Bran just what he meant. Quietly he drew out a sleek one handed crossbow, the weapon fashioned with a blackened steel Direwolf head, stylized to be sleek and the appearance of solid iron. Jon, in one smooth motion notched a single bolt, coated in iron and lifted his arm up and over his shoulder without even turning to face the target. His finger swiftly squeezed the trigger, the sharp twang of the crossbow echoing out as he fired without a single glance. And as the bolt flew true, it shattered Bran's arrow from feathering to tip and traveled beyond, embedding into the stone wall a solid two inches and a good three feet behind the target.

The courtyard stopped dead in utter silence at the spectacle they had just witnessed, Robb, Rickon, and Bran all gazing at the offending weapon in shock as Jon continued on his way; unaware that Sansa and Arya were watching from the upper rooms while working on their needlework with gaping expressions of their own. Ned only chuckled deep in his chest as he watched his sons sputter and gape like fish as they darted their head's between Jon's back and the crossbow bolt. Ned only could hope that the boy would be strong enough to face the trials ahead. But for some reason... Ned knew that while danger lurked at very corner, Jon would be just fine.

**So... Read and review please! And any feedback is appreciated. And while it will take time, I have no intention of giving up my first story. And the new chapters gave me the perfect plot line for later on. Tartarus won't know what hit'em!**

**Goodbye for now.**

**CRASH!**

**What the hell! Sonovabitch I just paid for that! Demon fuck go to hell!**


	2. The Journey from North to South

**Chapter two is up and ready to go folks. Enjoy!**

* * *

The day of Robert's arrival soon came upon Winterfell, and Jon had done much thinking in regards to his legitimization into House Stark. The news had been met with mixed results, in Jon's eyes at the least. Many of the commoner's finally could lay their curiosity to rest on the rumors surrounding his mother. His siblings were mostly unchanged on the matter, the only difference now being that Robb teased Jon on the overall lack of Dornish features he possessed, and had taken to calling him the "Sand Wolf." Something Jon had filed away as another possible alias should he ever become compromised as the Black Wolf. Not original, but he could work with it.

The greatest change, now that he was officially a Stark and the next to inherit should anything happen to Robb, was that many had begun to call the young man m'lord and Master Stark. It unnerved Jon immensely. To go so long as the bastard, the one never meant for glory to suddenly being addressed as the next legitimate potential heir to Winterfell was a little too much to take in during a single sitting. So in order to escape and clear his mind Jon often climbed the towers of Winterfell, and even now was currently seated atop the tallest spire his family's ancient home possessed. The tall stone spire overlooked the entire castle and even beyond Winterfell's walls for leagues on end. Yet now, Jon eyes were focused upon a large mass off carriages and horses in the distance, where banners of a crowned stag flapped in the wind for all to see. Jon smirked lightly as he looked down and prepared to descend, only to see Bran already on his way up. Jon shifted to the side as Bran gasped and panted on his way towards him. Jon only shook his head ruefully before he grabbed the scruff of the boy's shirt and hauled him up to rest flat on his stomach beside the elder Stark. A few moments passed before Bran flipped to lie on his back, blue eyes looking up at his brother.

"Do you see anything yet Jon?" Bran asked, his face flushed from exertion and the cold winds. Jon nodded as he pointed into the distance, the speck and long train of horses and carriages the only movement for miles. Bran followed the finger and gasped in awe, the thought of knights and the Kingsguard in their golden armor was going to truly be a sight to behold for Bran, of that Jon was sure.

"Wow..." Bran murmured in child-like wonder; moving to lean forward to rest his head atop the solid stone, with his auburn hair blowing in the howling wind with a smile on his face. Jon only nodded, content to sit and bask in the cold winds of the North as his eyes grew soft as he traced over the land he now called home. And no matter what happened in regards to leaving for Dorne in a few days' time, the North is where he truly belonged. Not down in the suns, summers and protection of the new gods of the South. He was a wolf to the core, and just as fierce. Something that all of the North would soon learn. As would his little brother, who had taken Jon's moment of distraction to tackle the older boy and proceed to laugh maniacally as the two wrestled on the thatched roof.

While unknown to the two boys who were laughing and playfully teasing each other, down beneath them, Catelyn Stark watched as her favourite son sat and laughed with his bastard brother with a cold look in her eyes.

* * *

The Stark family had all gathered near the front gate leading to the King's Road, Jon now standing beside Robb as the two men were now recognized as a rather dominant presence among the Stark family in comparison to their siblings. Robb was dressed in a new leather tunic and finely embroidered boots underneath a black cloak, while Jon had opted to wear his armor, the metal inlay gleaming in the light of the early morn as he stood in silence beside his brother. Sansa rolled her eyes at her older brothers' need to intimidate, preferring that she was dressed elegantly and as demure as any respectable lady. Her dress was colored dark grey and white, which made her look more akin to a princess than a mere lady. Arya however was nowhere to be found, with Bran and Rickon both fidgeting in place on the far ends of the family group. Theon Greyjoy meanwhile stood behind Jon, his face set in a wicked sneer as he glared into the younger man's back. Catelyn looked around wildly, her eyes furrowed in confusion and worry.

"Where's Arya?" she asked herself and she tried to peer over the crowds. "Sansa where is your sister?" she asked the young lady as she turned to look at her daughter. Sansa only shrugged in response, seemingly uncaring that her little sister was missing at present. A sound to the left of the group however made them turn, only to see Arya running towards them, a helm from one of the guards proudly sat upon her head.

Ned reached out and grabbed Arya's shoulders gently, causing the girl to stop and face her father. Ned knelt down while grabbing the helm looking at in confusion before turning to the girl and asked, "Where did you get this?"

Arya said nothing, only giving a slight huff and pout as her father took the helm and gave it to one of the guards. Jon smirked lightly and patted the girl's head as she passed, chuckling as she swatted his hand and moved to stand beside Bran. Thankfully the Stark children settled just in time, as the beginning of the King's party arrived. First led by members of the House Baratheon knights, with Prince Joffrey and his personal guard the Hound directly behind them. Sansa, in that one moment could not avert her eyes from the young Prince; his blonde hair glinting like spun gold and his eyes a sharp and intelligent green. He looked towards her slowly and smirked flirtatiously, causing Sansa to flush in embarrassment and give a small and shy smile in return.

What neither of the two young teens realised was that both Robb and Jon saw how the boy eyed their younger sister, with Jon being able to see far beyond the kind mask the Prince wore to hide his violent and hideous personality. And what he saw sickened him. Vile, wicked, cruel, and sadistic were what Jon was able see and glowed like wildfyre in the sickly green eyes of Joffrey Baratheon.

Jon growled deep in his chest as his eyes flashed bright blue at the young prince, Ghost now had his eyes riveted on the young man as well, driven by instinct and his master's call to be wary of this threat against the pack. Robb too had an uneasy feeling settle in his gut as he watched the snarky prick smirk at Sansa, and Jon's growl was all the proof Robb needed to know that Joffrey Baratheon was only going to be trouble. Grey Wind apparently sensed it too as he moved to stand shoulder to shoulder with Ghost, the two largest of the pack glaring wolfishly at the future King with hunger and fierce predatory anger.

However, their attention then shifted to the large ornate carriage that followed, bathed in shades of gold and red with the image of a lion and crowned stag adorning the doors and area behind the driver. And behind this, came Jaime Lannister.

The infamous Kingslayer and the youngest member of the Kingsguard. The man responsible for the death of the Mad King Aerys to win Robert his Rebellion almost twenty years ago.

Arya whispered in awe as she gazed upon the famed knight, eyes alight in childish wonder. "That's Jaime Lannister, the Queen's brother," she said quietly, with her voice light in excitement. Sansa however ignored the younger girl as she stood straighter once the carriage door opened wide, revealing to the gathered Stark family the Queen and her children. First came Prince Tommen, a rather chubby little lad of nine, who shuffled around shyly as he moved to stand by his sister. Princess Myrcella was a young lady of ten and three who smiled gently at her younger brother, her demeanor appearing rather shy and reserved in comparison to her elder brother Joffrey. And finally came Queen Cersei herself, hair like spun gold and eyes like glimmering jade that were matched by her elegant features and aristocratic demeanor. Warm furs adorned her lithe yet noticeably curvaceous frame, a mighty lion proudly adorning the back with its fangs bared in a ferocious roar. She moved to stand beside her children as at last, King Robert entered Winterfell keep.

As one all of Winterfell bowed to their king, Ned and his family bowing their heads as Robert brought his horse to a stop, waiting as a squire moved quickly to provide a set of steps for the King to descend. Jon noted to himself in the privacy of his own thoughts that King Robert was nothing at all like his father had told them so long ago. No longer was Robert a man who had once towered over all with his size, barrel chested and handsome enough to swoon any maiden; his powerful warhammer propped on his shoulders. Before Jon now stood a fat and bearded version of the legendary Baratheon hammer wielder, more likely to collapse from the sheer effort of picking up his old weapon ever again than from actually swinging it.

Robert strode down with purpose, his hair a shoulder length black ruffled as if not groomed for thought or care. His thick beard appeared to be the only part of his body that was seemingly treated with any form of compassion, neatly trimmed and dark as night. However Jon was able to note flecks of grey at the corners which betrayed the King's advancing age. King Robert than moved to stand directly before Ned Stark, gently shifting his left hand and motioning for the man and the people to rise. Ned swiftly rose to his feet, followed closely by his family and those under the service of House Stark as Jon at last noted the rather startling contrast between his father and the King. Ned Stark looked like he could lead men into battle and fight alongside them as he once did so many years ago. Robert did not. The two men non-privy to the young man's thoughts stared each other down, with Robert looking Ned over from head to toe, his expression unshifting.

King Robert then looked Ned straight in the eyes after a few moments and said, "You've got fat." His mouth was set into a grim line and his eyes dull as if simply stating a fact to the Quiet Wolf.

Lady Catelyn looked at Robert incredulously; an expression mirrored internally by all the Stark children, each of them watching in a slightly nervous manner as Ned only raised his brows in seeming disbelief and shifted his own head slightly downward and looked at Robert's rather large and round middle.

Robert then burst into laughter, a merry smile on his face as he embraced Ned, the two men laughing and smiling at their reunion. Catelyn gave a small, almost awkward smile as the two friends released each other a few moments later, thankful that Robert had not immediately turned his attention upon her. She remembered the last time they met very clearly, even if Robert it seemed did not. As if summoned by her very thoughts Robert turned to her next, a wide smile gracing his lips and almost hidden by the thick beard he sported.

"Cat!" he said loudly drawing her into a one armed hug, one she swiftly returned. However it was one far shorter than the one between her husband and Robert. "Your Grace," she said with a curtesy once he released her, watching as Robert ruffled young Rickon's hair affectionately as he slowly moved to face Ned once more.

"Fourteen years," Robert said with a fond smile on his lips. "Why haven't I seen you, where the hell have you been?" Robert asked with a smirk on his lips, as he basked in the long needed reunion with his dear friend. Ned smiled softly as he placed a hand on Robert's shoulder and answered.

"Guarding the North for you, Your Grace. Winterfell is yours." Robert only chuckled softly before he turned to Ned's right.

"Now who might you be?" he asked with a tilt of his head, as he moved to stand before Robb. Robert examined Robb for a few moments, his eyes narrowed in thought as he hummed under his breath. "You must be Robb," he said at last smiling lightly, left hand rested upon an ornate antler hilted longsword as he clasped Robb's arm with his own with a grin. Jon stood silent as he drew his hand into the folds of his cloak, the gloved limb rested upon the hilt of the dragonglass dagger he kept; as he felt all the eyes of Winterfell upon him. And finally, Robert moved to face him and the King seemed utterly perplexed and shocked at seeing Jon.

Jon looked his King in the eyes and saw Robert narrow his own in apparent concentration, coming to stand parallel with Jon and staring the younger man down. Jon, thinking fast quickly bowed his head low and said, "It is an honor to have you come to Winterfell, Your Grace."

Robert seemed unpacified however as he examined Jon in greater detail, until the light of recognition flashed in his eyes.

"I know you now," Robert whispered, as if what he is to say is a great secret, "Ned's bastard, the baby he took from The Tower of Joy after my victory and taking of the throne? Jon Snow if I recall," he finished aloud, unmindful of some of the incredulous looks from his family and the members of his procession either directed at Jon or himself. Yet none were more surprised or rocked by Robert's words than Jaime Lannister, as he fixed his jade eyes upon the young Stark. A sudden thought seemed to worm into the Kingslayer's head as he studied the young man, the light cast upon the boy's eyes showing them to contain an almost amethyst quality Jaime had seen only on two other men during his life.

Ned meanwhile narrowed his own eyes and felt his shoulder tense as he looked at Jon, surprised to see not a trace of emotion on the man's face. Robert soon laughed however, breaking Ned's gaze as Robert clapped Jon's shoulder, a twinkle in his eyes as he playfully jabbed at Jon's arm. Robert glanced at Ned then, mouth wide in a smile almost hidden by the beard.

"A fine lookin' lad you got Ned, almost the spitting' image of ya," the King said brightly, laughing merrily as he released Jon's shoulder and moved on to the rest of the Stark clan. Jon's siblings released an internal sigh of relief one and all, with Robb patting Jon's shoulder and Sansa giving him an encouraging smile hidden away from the King's notice. Jon felt his own lips tug into a light grin at the gesture. He was truly thankful for Sansa's attempt at the very least. He was far closer with the others than he was with Sansa, but to know and see that she still cared gave Jon hope that he could mend and strengthen the bond between them before he had to leave for Dorne.

However as the guards moved to escort the King and his family inside, Robert waved them away and walked up to Ned once more, his voice solemn and grave. "Take me to the crypt Ned," he said coolly, unmindful of the withering look sent to his back by Cersei, who had moved to lay a hand on both Tommen and Myrcella's shoulders and held them close to her body.

"My love the journey has been long and your children are tired, you can visit the bones of the dead some other time," she pleaded with an almost begging light in her eyes, only to receive a hard stone like glare as Robert huffed and moved towards the keep.

"Come Ned," he ordered, uncaring of the apologetic look Ned gave Cersei as Lord Stark followed his King, ordering one of his own men to open the crypts and prepare the kitchens for the feast later that evening. Jon watched as Queen Cersei raised her chin and hardened her eyes, sweeping her two young children into the warmth of Winterfell keep as the rest of the procession was guided by the remaining Stark bannermen to their quarters as the Starks followed after Lady Catelyn and the Queen. Yet Jaime seemed to lag behind, eyes riveted into the tall and straight back of Jon as the young lord walked shoulder to shoulder with his brother.

However, as they neared the keep doors Jon was soon stopped by a peculiar sound. A sharp, echoing whistle, and after a moment recognition seemed to flash in his eyes. A broad grin etched itself upon his face as he turned and saw the whistler, hidden by shadow in a secluded alcove near the doors leading to the kitchens. Patting Robb on the back in sympathy, Jon quickly walked off, with Robb shaking his head and following his mother into an hour of utter boredom in silence. Jon walked with purpose as he made his way through the large group of soldiers and guards; Ghost padding along silently behind him.

"So we meet again at last, bastard of Lord Stark," a voice said to his left as Jon reached the alcove, his grin widening as he saw the Imp, or as he was known to the Seven Kingdoms, Tyrion Lannister. The last born son of Tywin Lannister and heir to the seat at Casterly Rock.

Tyrion was considered by many as a very unattractive sort, with short stubby legs and disproportioned arms alongside a jutting forehead and mismatched eyes of black and green. His hair as well instead of a solid spun gold like his brother and sister was a mixture of blond and black. Yet for all his lack in looks, Tyrion Lannister was incredibly cunning and intelligent, something which had allowed him to survive his time at Casterly Rock as the Halfman of the famed Lion Tywin. And among other things, he was one of Jon's only true friends, the two having forged their friendship after meeting up by chance and travelling to Castle Black together when Jon was only fourteen.

And Jon had never been more thankful for that. For if he was to survive his ever growing part in the game of thrones, Jon knew needed he needed Tyrion at his side. A person who could see and pick out what he missed and could improvise and outmaneuver in the favor of Jon and his allies would be invaluable to Jon's plans.

And a Lannister, as Tyrion once said to him, always paid their debts. But loyalty was far more important to Jon, and he knew that Tyrion would not betray him. Not after Jon had saved his life from a Wildling ambush against the Night's Watch some three years ago. Debts were a convenience, but loyalty in the right hands could last a lifetime. Jon knew that the latter applied to him and the Halfman of Casterly Rock.

"The years have done you some good my friend, I think you might have actually grown a barest inch," Jon joked as Tyrion gave a devious smirk and laid his hands against his chest, eyes twinkling in mirth.

"Aye I suppose you might be right," the dwarf mused, his rich silks and satin cloak dark against the white stone of this section of the keep. "I have found my ability to reach the large full tits of a fine whore to be more than fulfilling as of late," Tyrion said with a grin, only laughing as Jon shook his head in resignation at the older man's words. However the mood soon shifted as the two outcasts made their way through the passage towards the grand hall, with the sounds of the feast preparation in the kitchens well under way all around them.

"Have you prepared the _Fang_ for travel to Dorne?" Tyrion asked conversationally, mindful of the numerous guards and maids lining the halls that parted as the two lords passed. Jon nodded shortly as he pet Ghost's head, the great direwolf following at his hip.

"Aye, I sent a raven to the crew the day I was legitimized and informed of the situation," Jon explained, smiling as he passed one of the guards and a maid he knew had taken a fancy to him. The girl, no older than ten and seven smiled bashfully and hurried about; her face now flushed a fine shade of red as she peeked out from under her long eye lashes up at Jon's face. Tyrion raised a brow at the interaction and chuckled as he patted Jon on the hip with a brilliant grin.

"It seems you have learned far more than even I had expected," he said lowly until he looked up at Jon once more. "Are you sure you are ready for this?" Tyrion asked seriously, his eyes gauging and Jon was able to detect the slight concern buried beneath the cool delivery. The older man had taken the young Stark under his wing during the journey to Castle Black together all those years ago. Jon was glad to, at the very least have one ally he could share many of his plans with. Jon slowly nodded his head to Tyrion's question, the cloak billowing behind him as the young lordling excused himself.

"I have to be, else the Princess of Dorne will be the end of me," Jon said solemnly, however he gave his most loyal friend one parting smile, "Although, from what I have heard… Dying in the arms and throes of passion with the beautiful Lady Martell might not be the vilest of ways to meet the gods," he said cockily as Jon's armored form vanished around the corner with Ghost at his heels.

Tyrion only chuckled as he reached into his cloak and took a small flask from within and took a steep drink from his favorite companion. Wiping his mouth and raising his flask, Tyrion poured but a fraction in salute of his oldest and dearest friend. "May the god of tits and wine watch over in the trials ahead Jon Stark. Gods know I do."

* * *

Later that afternoon, Jon had drawn up his hood to escape the cold winds as he travelled into the market, his destination a small shop in particular with the constant ring of hammer to steel echoing form within. Jon swiftly entered the shop of the local smith, a man by the name of Mikken. A man who as it happened was an old friend of his father from Ned's campaign days, having moved here from White Harbor after the Rebellion. The ring of a sharp brass bell echoed in the small and humble shop over the ring of hammer and steel, with the walls lined with numerous blades and weapons of all sorts.

From daggers to greatswords, one and all forged from the strongest iron and in the simple, functional designs of the North. The ring of hammer to steel echoed in Jon's ears as he lowered his hood, the black cloths tattered edges tickling the back of his neck as he moved further into the shop. His eyes scanned the room from top to bottom, looking for any and all hidden areas or places of interest. Finding nothing of note or out of place, Jon walked forward; coming to rest at the counter. Laying his hands upon the worn and scratched wood, he soon began examining an ornate Valyrian Steel dagger, the pommel fashioned into a wolf fang.

"Fine piece of work that is," a voice remarked behind Jon, who spun sharply and unleashed his hidden blades, only to still his hands when he saw it was Mikken, the old man's face set into a small smirk at seeing the young lord's reaction. "Quick to draw and to stay your hand as well, my oh my, what you must have seen along your path Jon Stark I hope to never know."

Jon snorted and gave a small scowl as he loosened his fists and felt the blades retract into the sleeves of his robes. "I haven't the time for your tricks and riddles Mikken, I am short on time, and I must depart for White Harbor by the eve of tomorrow if I am to arrive in Dorne at the agreed upon time."

Mikken only gave a toothy smile, his gloved hands brushing stray flakes of iron and ground metal off the sleeves of his tunic as he moved to stand behind the counter before reaching down and pulling two parcels from underneath. One was short, about three feet in length if Jon was right and Mikken had followed his orders to detail. It was wrapped in simple cotton cloth of the Stark colours in black and white. While the other, this confused Jon slightly. It was about six and a half feet in length, a few inches taller than Jon himself, as wide as three of Jon's fingers, wrapped in brilliant gold and red silk. Quirking a brow, Jon gently ran his hand across the smooth and light cloth captivated by the weapon hidden underneath.

"And this?" he asked as he gently lifted the corner and gazed at the item within. Mikken smiled as he gently reached down and pulled a small sheathe out and laid it beside Jon's free hand, the hilt of the blade fashioned from simple iron.

He nodded towards the package and said, "That piece was a commission for Lord Stark, to be used as you saw fit once he learned of the order you yourself had placed."

Jon smirked then, gently picking up his own order and looking to ensure it was indeed his order. "Always had a knack for these type of things my father has, and now I suppose I owe him for the effort," Jon remarked dryly, nodding in satisfaction as he gently released the cloth and gathered the two weapons in arm. Reaching within his robes, Jon drew a small leather bag that landed with a solid thump atop the wooden counter. "For your loyalty and service to House Stark these long summer years Mikken," Jon said with a bow of his head, before turning on his heel and striding for the door leaving Mikken to chuckle as he shook his head, gently reaching out and grasping the small bag.

"The best of luck to ya lad, I think yer going to need it," the old man murmured solemnly gently reaching out and sheathing the Valyrian dagger, slamming it home and calling for a courier to deliver it to Winterfell Keep.

* * *

That night, all of Winterfell was abuzz; the feast for the King and his family well under way by the time Jon left his room, having been busy preparing for the long journey to Dorne he was setting out for tomorrow evening. However he was brought out of his musings by the uncanny uttering of his first name.

"_Jon, Jon," _the peculiar voice cries as Jon looks to the sky and sees a large raven diving down towards him. Smiling Jon held out his left arm, the leather and steel armor easily cushioning the large birds landing, its wings open wide as it cried out a happy trill. Jon soon began to run a hand gently down the bird's chest, the raven releasing a pleased squawk as it playfully nipped at his master's fingers.

"About time you got here," the Black Wolf said jokingly, smirking as the raven cried and jumped to his shoulder, the great bird fluttering his wings as he settled himself. Jon only chuckled as he made his way towards the great hall, Longclaw at his hip and most of his armor replaced by fine leather breeches and a black tunic with the howling head of a direwolf patterned on the back in dark grey and bright white. His hands flexed idly within black leather gloves, gently tightening the straps to his hidden blades concealed by the sleeves of his tunic anxiously. Jon would admit to himself that he would never dream of ever being seated with the rest of his siblings and father during a feast.

Not to mention that the Black Wolf felt truly out of place outside of his robes and armor, as more often than not it had been a necessity for it to be worn at all times lest he fall to those who sought to destroy him. He was however rather thankful he was able to keep the greaves and bracers, yet he knew that it would potentially send the wrong message should he wear it while greeting and entertaining their guests. A wolfish grin grew upon his lips as he neared the grand hall doors. Insulting guests hadn't stopped him before, and it sure as hell wasn't going to now.

Jon sent the raven away soon after, reflexively straightening his tunic and cloak as he entered the hall, curious members of the staff and King Robert's guard looking at the young lord in confusion. Jon gave them no heed as he walked along the far wall towards the high table, his eyes cast over the entire room with his senses on high alert. His training would not allow anything less, his eyes flicking from exit to exit, the windows and even people in attendance in general.

He rolled his eyes and snorted in disgust however at seeing his supposed King, laughing loudly and completely drunk off his fat arse. And the little fact that Robert had a hand planted on the ass of a young maid who laughed along with him, her face flushed in a way that told Jon all he needed to know made his disgust all the more apparent. Glancing at the high table, Jon saw the distasteful look adorning the queen's face as she watched her husband then devour the younger girl's mouth in a drunken kiss; the sharp green eyes of the House of Lannister glinting wickedly as they settled upon the drunken Stag. Jon would admit that he felt some measure of sympathy for the woman, to see her own husband whore and drink himself into a stupor each day for years on end. Yet Jon knew to temper his emotions, for behind the eyes she set for all others to see Jon saw beneath the harsh glint. A useful skill all bastards know.

Within the eyes of Cersei Lannister Jon saw malice, cunning, intelligence… and a shrewd and cautious woman hidden beneath the façade of the damsel lioness queen. Jon would need to be wary of her, and to watch her every move should she move against his family. Stories told to him by Tyrion during their travels echoed in his mind then, at how even as a child the young lady known as Cersei Lannister always strived for what none else could possess. Jon would watch and observe for now. But should anything come of his findings, the lioness would bow to the wolf. Of that he was absolutely sure.

Jon however, was far more concerned at the moment at having a good meal and a stiff drink to wash it down before he set out for White Harbor tomorrow. Giving nods or smiles in greeting as he passed, Jon eventually made it to the lords table, moving to sit next to his brother Robb.

Upon hearing the clatter of metal and leather against wood, Robb turned his head and gave a large smile as he stood, drawing his brother into a one armed hug, laughing as he noted the partially uncomfortable look on Jon's face.

"Ha, not one meant for parties are you dear brother?" Robb asked with a laugh as he clapped Jon on the shoulder, sitting down heavily in his chair and gesturing for Jon to do the same. And as Jon seated himself, Robb raised his own glass in a silent toast to Jon, his smirk hidden by the rim of the cup. Jon only grunted in response to Robb's question silently thanking the young maid that served him as he took a sip of the summerwine, the vibrant red liquid sending a sharp and pleasant burn down his throat.

"Aye… Parties have never truly settled with me brother, far more so before my recent elevation in status." Jon remarked dryly as he placed the goblet down and sat back mulling over his thoughts. Robb only chuckled in response, his hand reaching down beneath the table to begin gently scratching Grey Wind's ears as the Young Wolf looked at his brother.

"I think that lordship suits you far better than anything else brother," he remarked as he downed the last of his wine. Smacking his lips Robb only continued, eyes dancing in mirth. "Maybe I should have convinced father to marry me off to the Martell's and you rule Winterfell and the North in my place," he said as Grey Wind tore at his dinner of venison and raw elk. "You certainly fit the image of a Northern ruler better than I ever could."

Jon only snorted in derision as he took his goblet and gently swirled the rich and heavily fragranced contents. His dark eyes glanced at Robb from under his bangs, the purple-black iris for a split moment flashing an iridescent blue as Jon spoke.

"I believe that Lady Stark would sooner string me by my gizzards from the Sky Cell then let me rule Winterfell in your stead brother," Jon said bluntly, momentarily catching Robb off-guard by his rather straightforward opinion and response.

Awkward silence descended upon the two brothers as Jon focused on how best to address the matter of his departure tomorrow, and Robb in guilty acknowledgement that his brother was right. No love was lost between Jon and Robb's mother that was clear to see. Enough so that even Rickon upon Jon's departure five years ago had questioned why their mother had been happy and didn't like his big brother Jon. It had become something of a sore subject among the Stark children, knowing that while they might have a decent relationship with Jon... Their mother did not. However, it was put behind them now that their brother was recognized as one of them in both name and blood.

However Robb's thoughts on the matter had brought forth another matter all in Winterfell were trying to avoid, hoping to preserve what happiness the Stark children had gained if only a little longer.

"When do you plan to set out for White Harbor?" the Young Wolf asked quietly, his eyes forward and cast over the room, his face solemn and withdrawn. Jon said nothing for a few moments, only crossing his arms in silence as he followed Robb's gaze and looked out over the crowds.

"I leave at the setting sun tomorrow. I travel far faster at night and alone," Jon said at last, his voice sad and withdrawn. Gently laying a hand atop of the snarling wolf head pommel of his trusted blade. "To the land of my birth, my new home at the tip of Sunspear," he remarked with a hollow chuckle, a sense of guilt gnawing at his gut at having to lie to his brother by falsely acting as if he was resigned to his future. Closing his eyes Jon let a sad smile grace his lips for a split moment until it was washed away by the mask of his famed alias.

"Dorne isn't your home," Robb said suddenly, his tone so fierce and commanding that Jon felt his mask shatter as he turned to look at the Heir of Winterfell. Gazing at his elder brother Jon was surprised to see a cold fire burning within the eldest Stark's blue orbs as Robb laid a hand on Jon's shoulder. "Your home is _here_," Robb said, casting a hand to the halls and people around them. Each laughing and drinking to their hearts content as the night wore on and the people rejoiced in the company of friends. "Winterfell, and the North shall now and always be open to you brother... No matter what obstacles lie on the path you now walk alone." Robb promised as he clasped his hand with Jon's and squeezed, bright blue eyes intensely searching the dark grey depths of his brother for some semblance of the boy he once knew… The boy who had left and never came home.

"The North is your home, and she always remembers her sons that call for her touch," Robb vowed, eyes hard and strong as he slowly released Jon's hand. "Never forget that brother. No matter how far you may go she will always answer your calls."

Jon looked at Robb strangely then, warmth filling his chest as he felt his brother's words sink in. And for the first time in many years, Jon felt at peace, happy that he had finally found the one thing he thought would always be denied to him in the North. Acceptance.

However the somber mood was quickly turned on its head as Robb playfully slapped Jon on the back, eyes bright in mischief most foul. "Besides brother, sharing a bed with the famed Lady Martell ought to sooth any discomfort while you live in their halls." Jon only smirked and shook his head as he raised his goblet towards Robb, who then reached back and grabbed one freshly filled and knocked them together, a bright moment in their lives as brothers.

Ned Stark watched on as the two eldest of his House's next generation laughed and drank the night away, and had never been more proud once all the others joined the two rowdy sons of the North. It was moments such as the one that night, of all his children laughing and cheerful in the presence of family that made his life truly worth living.

* * *

The next morning found many of the guests all within bed, each trying to sooth the blistering pain in their skulls as the night's festivities took their toll. Yet for the Stark children, all was well. Jon and his brothers were actually in the yards, the silent man once more donning his armor with the great raven perched on his shoulder and Ghost seated quietly beside him. Robb in contrast to Jon was dressed in sparring armor, a wooden practice sword held in his hand as Prince Joffrey stood on the opposite side, his face set in a bored and listless grimace as he idly picked at the ground with his wooden blade.

Currently, it was Bran and Tommen within the ring; the young prince clad in firm leather armor that made him appear far more round than was normal. Bran was dressed similarly, his sword planted within the muddy earth as his breath came in ragged gasps. Sweat soaked hair was plastered to his brow as Bran charged Tommen, who hastily threw up a sloppy parry and forced Bran to collide with him and send both boys tumbling to the ground. Jon chuckled as the two boys flailed about until they let their arms and legs fall to the ground and conceded defeat simultaneously.

Rodrik Cassel looked on in silence as he moved towards the two fallen boys and in one great heave hoisted them both to their feet.

"Well done lads, fine work indeed for boys so young," he complimented as he swiftly took the two practice swords from the limp fingers of the two boys. Joffrey however scoffed arrogantly, tossing the practice blade aside and laying a hand against his own steel blade.

"Indeed it seems so that any simpleton can wield a stick fashioned to a point Master-at-Arms," he jeered loudly as the Lannister men accompanying him leered and chuckled at the Stark men in arrogance and supremacy. Joffrey cocked a brow and then moved forward and addressed Robb directly, slightly unsheathing the blade at his hip to bare fine steel.

"Perhaps a better test of our skills is necessary," he pondered, his eyes mocking and falsely intrigued. "I propose..." he said evenly head high and jaw set, "Live steel. No more and no less."

Rodrik in response huffed angrily at the upstart prince, daring to question a man who had studied war before the boy was a twinkle in his father's eyes.

"Nay we will not bare tempered steel here young princeling," he said firmly as he crossed his arms and leaned against the short stone wall that separated the sword arena from the rest of the yard.

Robb however, after seeing the little braggart's unsettling glances at Sansa last night when they had gathered as one large group had been only waiting for the opportune moment to thrash the boy in a proper fashion. He would let the message stand clear that if Joffrey so much as dared to touch Sansa... He would answer to all the North and her fury.

"Rodrik he speaks true, we are not mere boys barely grown but men of house both fit for battle," he argued fervently, moving to stand before Rodrik. Jon watched on silently, off-handily aiding Bran in relieving himself of the armor. He knew that Rodrik would not change his mind so easily, yet if pushed far enough the elder man would indeed grant the little prince's request. But in his own mind Jon was resolved to not let it come to that. For what purpose would it serve to have Robb embarrass the Prince when Jon could do it for him?

"Even your own lord commands of it Ser Rodrik! Perhaps you best listen?" Joffrey noted with a quirked brow, waiting with what little patience he possessed for the Master-at-Arms decision. Yet something happened that neither Robb, Joffrey nor Rodrik could ever believe.

"If it is a battle you desire your grace, then perhaps I could be of some assistance," Jon said with a wry smirk on his lips. Confidently striding forward as his robes flowed in a stiff wind, the drawn up hood obscuring his eyes from view. Ghost and the great raven both moved to the side once Jon stopped moving, intently watching their master as the young prince seemed taken off guard by the response.

Joffrey looked first at Robb and then the Stark bannermen, all of which having no reaction except surprise. Turning to address the hooded man, Joffrey felt fear begin to settle in his gut for a brief instant before he cast it aside with narrowed eyes. Squaring his jaw Joffrey moved to stand opposite the taller man, hand wrapped firmly around the hilt of his blade, Lion's Tooth.

"I hope you are prepared Northman," Joffrey said as he tossed aside his own cloak and faced Jon squarely. "I fear what little pride you possess will be trampled under the boots of your betters and die upon the edge of my sword," he boasted loudly; gaining laughs and cheers from the Lannister knights while the Starks sat in silence and waited for the thrashing to begin.

A smirk adorned Jon's face as he lowered his hand to Longclaw's hilt, slowly drawing his blade for the prince to see. And all eyes widened upon seeing the tell-tale smoke coloration of Valyrian spell-forged weaponry, as the elegant blade moved in intricate arcs as Jon prepared for the spar. And in a great flourish Jon twirled the blade to a halt, pointing it directly at Joffrey's throat, with the tip neither dipping nor shaking an inch as Jon held the longer, and most assuredly heavier blade aloft.

"We shall see whose pride is slain here today young prince," Jon said coldly, with his mouth hard and pressed into a thin line as Joffrey felt a flash of unease in his gut. Joffrey upon freeing himself from fears cold grip, felt anger burn through him as the man did not tremble in terror as he hoped, but stood tall against him, as if he could actually defeat the son of the King.

"Damn wolf fucking peasant!" Joffrey snarled as he slashed at Jon, his anger spilling over as Jon moved to the side and dodged the blade cleanly, only to slam his own blade into Joffrey's and causing the prince to lose his footing instantly. Jon capitalized on the prince's misstep as he swept his feet and sent Joffrey tumbling into a cart at the arena edge. Resetting himself, Jon waited patiently for Joffrey to right himself, the boy's blonde hair falling in ratty locks as the boy charged in screaming once more.

Jon parried this time, the clash of steel ringing around them. Sparks flew as the superior blade chipped the prince's prized weapon, the sheer might of Jon's swing catching Joffrey off-guard.

Jon looked Joffrey in the eyes, and what the young prince saw horrified him. Eyes a menacing blue streaked with black glared at him hatefully, with the younger man pushed back by Jon's strength. "Tell me, Prince Joffrey," Jon began, eyes narrowing as he twirled the blade in intricate arcs going faster and faster until he slammed it into Joffrey's own, pushing the younger man backwards. "Have you ever killed a man?" he asked as he released the blade lock, beginning to circle the fearful prince, an audience slowly gathering around at the ring of steel in the yards. And standing far in the back, stood Jaime Lannister. Watching as the young man who according to Ned Stark was the nephew of his old teacher went toe to toe against his own son. And for a moment he was struck dumb as instead of seeing Jon and Joffrey sparring in the yard, Jaime saw Arthur and himself from years ago. Yet as he continued to watch Jaime felt a terrible dread well in his lings and halt his breath as the image of another man seemed to superimpose over Jon… A tall, silver haired man whose actions had plunged the land into one of the bloodiest Civil war's in recorded history.

"What does that have to do with anything?" Joffrey yelled angrily as he paced like a caged beast, his temper slowly getting the better of him and choking away his fear. Jon only shook his head unhindered by the angry screams of the young lion cub.

"Far more than you realise, child," Jon exclaimed as he dashed forward, Longclaw set in a decapitating blow. Joffrey felt his eyes go wide and fear surge through him at the sheer speed Jon showed, hastily raising his blade while leaving his torso exposed. Something that became all too clear when Jon smashed his blade against Joffrey's and released one hand from the hilt. And proceeded to slam his leather gloved fist directly into the arrogant prat's stomach. Joffrey's lungs heaved as his body felt the air rush from it instantly, with a sound akin to a choking sputter escaping his throat as he dropped his blade and fell to his knees.

Propped on his knees and clutching his gut Joffrey released his lunch from earlier, staining his clothes and falling to cover his hands. Tears streaked down his face as the boy desperately gasped for air, unaware of Jon slowly walking towards him. The bannermen moved to make towards their lord, only to freeze as they saw what had happened. All motion and sound seemed to cease for Joffrey however as he felt the cold and searing touch of steel upon his collarbone and pressed into his jugular. Frantically and now terrified, he looked up the black blade, tracing each contour of the ancient steel until he met the hard eyes of Jon Stark. The taller man had his hood down to reveal a face scarred and lean from both the passing from adolescence and what Joffrey guessed as intense physical work. Much like how his Uncle Jaime had looked as a boy no older than Joffrey from what his mother had told him.

Jon pressed harder, turning the blade to rest edge down on Joffrey's collar. "Until you have tasted blood and watched the light leave a man's eyes as you cut him down, you will never beat me Joffrey Baratheon," Jon said and Joffrey in that instant knew it to be true. For Jon had not stated it as a boast, as many would have done in the same light and position. Nay... Jon said only what he meant, even Joffrey could see that. Jon would win in any bout between them, because the older man was far more experienced and all together more lethal than Joffrey, an untested warrior could ever hope to be. Jon would go for the kill if necessary and fight to survive, while Joffrey would hesitate if only a mere moment to long to do the same.

In that moment, Joffrey Baratheon swore to have his vengeance against Jon Stark, even if it cost him his life. Ironic for young Joffrey... For he would soon learn in his final moments that the gods hold all men accountable in the end... No matter their station or blood.

The spectators looked on in silence as Jon slowly lowered Longclaw, sheathing the blade and kneeling down to gently retrieve the sword of his opponent. Joffrey remained in the mud, his pride battered, cracked and all together broken like non-tempered steel by the former bastard of Winterfell. Hot tears made tracks in the grime upon his cheeks as anger surged within him like a fire. A glint of purest light out of the corner of his eye is all that stayed Joffrey's hand as his eyes focused on the image before him. For in the hands of Jon Stark rested the pommel of Joffrey's own blade, the weapon tarnished by mud and the muck of the training yards. Numb fingers reached out in a daze it seemed to the young Prince, wrapping around the leather hilt of the weapon and swiftly tumbling to earth as Jon released the blade, the dark grey eyes of the Stark watching it fall and sink into the mud once more.

Jon only nodded his head in respect, until he turned on his heels and walked away. The great raven swooped down from the ramparts to land on the hooded man's shoulder as Ghost moved to stand at his side once more. Jon offered no words, nor petty chides or remarks as he walked away form thebeaten Prince. He had done more than enough to trample on the princeling's pride today. And Jon knew a lesser man would not have simply walked away. A man like Joffrey would have jeered and pruned his feathers like a damn bird till the very earth shattered around them. But Jon was not Joffrey or those particular type of men. From the moment he had lain eyes upon the wicked and foul soul of the blond haired prince, Jon knew that he was a far better man than Joffrey Baratheon could ever hope to be. Even if his own soul was stained by the blood of hundreds... It would seem little in comparison to what would stain Joffrey's if he became King.

The crowd soon parted before Jon like a great wave, each of them staring at him in either amazement or fear as Ghost trotted along behind him. Yet his eyes focused solely upon the infamous Kingslayer, the man's ornate golden armor gleaming in the sun as the Kingsguard locked eyes with Jon. Pale green stared into darkest grey as Jaime stared the younger man down, and felt a flash of hope burn within his chest at seeing a man he had once called friend staring back at him.

And Jaime Lannister prayed to the gods that day. That he would never have to face the young Stark in battle, lest Jon had inherited the legendary skill with a blade from the Southern side of his blood. For he dared not possibly steal the life of the son of a man who had taught him so much, and who had been as much as a brother to him as Tyrion had for so many years. He owed his fallen brother that much.

* * *

Later that night, Jon stood outside of the Winterfell stable, his stallion impatiently trotting from foot to foot as Jon looked back at the castle that had been his home for so many years. Motion to the left of his vision caught his eye, as Jon saw Robb walking towards him. The Heir of the North was followed closely by Bran, Sansa, Arya, and Rickon. All subdued as a tamed horse and dressed in cloaks bearing the Stark sigil: the black direwolf running over a white field of Northern ice. What caught Jon's eye the most however, was the black cloth held in Sansa's arms; a piece of rather large cloth neatly folded with the head of a howling direwolf in white seam emblazoned upon it.

Jon quickly dismounted as the other Stark's drew near until finally, as if his nerve broke like dry tinder little Rickon bolted forward, tears falling to the ground and streaming down his cheeks as he slammed into Jon, clutching at his brother as if fearing he would vanish into thin air.

Jon only stared at the little boy in shock, until his eyes softened as he heard the muffled cries of the little boy. Leaning down Jon brought the distraught boy into his arms with his own head propped atop long auburn locks as Rickon cried and wailed into his chest. Jon lowered his head and gently began to rub the boys back, the babbling of his younger brother undiscernible to even his trained ears.

"Shh, shh it's alright, it's alright Rickon." He whispered as Robb and the others stopped a few feet away, Arya in fact having the sword he had given her; Needle, strapped to her hip. Rickon sniffled and only tightened his grip further, burying his head into Jon's broad chest as he had done so many times as a baby.

Robb moved forward to clap a hand on Jon's shoulder, causing Jon to reflexively look up at his elder brother. Robb had a soft and sad smile as he gently leaned down and took Rickon away, the seven year old boy drying his eyes as Sansa brought forth the folded garment which she gently pressed into Jon's arms once the newest Stark rose almost unsteadily to his feet.

"It is a gift," she explained at the blank look she received as a lone traitorous tear fell from her eye, drawing her arms close to escape the chill of the northern night. "A reminder of who you are and that you have always have been one of us…" Sansa physically stopped and seemed to mull over the last word upon her tongue like a fine wine, until it escaped her with a gentle lilt. "Brother."

Jon slowly unravelled the gift and was met by a fine leather and fur lined cloak of darkest, with the sigil of House Stark emblazoned in white upon the back for all to see. Slowly, he ran his fingers over the fresh tanned leather and ever so carefully drew it over his shoulders, the comfortable weight pressing into his armor and broad frame like a gentle rain. The fur collar immediately warming his neck as it brushed against his beard, with the cloak obscuring most of his body from view.

A warm smile, one many of the others had seen only once before grew on his face as he moved forward and drew Sansa into a hug, unmindful as she tensed in surprise only to gently and tentatively return it.

"Thank you, little sister," Jon whispered as he drew back and placed a light kiss upon her brow before stepping back and moved towards Arya, the young girl trying to hide her tears as she clutched her sword to her waist.

Jon only smiled as he knelt down and gently placed his hands on her shoulders, his eyes warm and sad as Arya at last lost her nerve and lunged at him. Jon simply wrapped her in his arms as he held her tight, a small part of him unwilling to let go.

"Remember to practice," he muttered into her hair, squeezing her once more as he gently moved her back and lifted a gloved hand to wipe at her silent tears. "And always remember to stick 'em with the pointy end." He teased, chuckling as Arya nodded eagerly and smiled at him.

"Always." She said, moving back before she turned her gaze towards Bran. Bran, who remained the only one of the children that had said not a word nor moved an inch all the while. Kneeling to face his younger brother, Jon placed his hands on the boy's shoulders and squeezed comfortingly as Bran stared at his boots as if they were the most interesting thing in the Seven Kingdoms.

All of them stayed silent until Bran finally spoke, his voice quivering from emotion and fear. "Is this a final goodbye Jon?" he asked quietly, finally raising his head and letting Jon see the very real fear in his bright blue eyes. Eyes he had known for so long to be full of joy and life... And Jon felt it was his fault they now lacked what made them so unique in the harsh lands of their forefathers. Jon said nothing, only squared his jaw and answered in his rather rusty High Valyrian, lightly scolding himself for not picking up any while overseas with Daenerys.

"Tubī daor," he said firmly, struggling to get the proper inflection of the words, with his eyes flashing in the light of the setting sun while the others smiled gently at the second born Stark, as their own lessons allowed them to understand.

Bran smiled widely as he threw himself forward and embraced Jon, the cool leather of the cloak jolting his hands as Jon swiftly returned it.

"Come home safe and don't forget to visit in King's Landing," Bran whispered idly as Jon began to grin, releasing a hearty chuckle once Bran pulled back to look at him.

While up above, in the recesses of a low balcony, Eddard Stark smiled softly as he watched his sons embrace and laugh, knowing that it could be years before they would see each other again. He watched as Jon slowly retreated from Bran and mounted the stallion once more, his new cloak shining like a beacon in the ever quickly darkening night and against the dark stone of Winterfell. The raven soon flew to perch on the boy's shoulder, as the large white direwolf moved to stand abreast to the large war horse. Giving one final look at his siblings, Jon flicked the reigns and vanished beyond Winterfell's gates, leaving the only home he had ever known far behind.

* * *

Three weeks soon passed as Jon crossed over all the Stark territory, his destination drawing closer each day until he finally crested over the last hill, sighing in relief as White Harbor came into view. The stallion, a fine breed nearly nineteen hands high he had named Night Strider panted in exhaustion as Ghost moved to stand beside the great beast of war.

And Ghost had grown as well, now standing nay shoulder to shoulder with Jon after three weeks of intense hunting and travel. Jon had been concerned that perhaps the beast still not even a year old was growing too swift, until late one night he watched as his powers reacted with the beast and seemed to empower Ghost; who had glowed bright blue and grew another few inches in size that night alone.

Now the beast would soon be large enough to ride if Jon were foolish enough to try, yet the ambient thought of any children he were to have riding the large animal and laughing in wonder haunted his dreams as of late. However he knew it was something best left to lie buried for now. First he must meet his bride to be before such matters are brought and given life. Otherwise Daenerys would have his head on a pike, and he frankly rather enjoyed living.

Smirking softly he gently patted Night Strider's flank as the horse's breathing beginning to steady out. "Easy Strider, we have but a short distance to go yet," he said as he moved the animal into a slow trot, willing to forsake speed and allow the animal to get a short reprieve. Jon shook his head and said, "I only hope that Watcher delivered the message to Adéwalé on time, I would hate to wait any longer for my ship to arrive."

The white washed gates of the ancient city soon greeted his weary eyes as the odd group made their way through the bustling streets and crowds. Jon could only smirk as the people gave him great berth, Ghost silent as ever matching his pace and dominating much of the cobbled street as they made their way towards the outer ports. And none too soon, for Jon could tell that a storm was upon the winds, one he must brave if he had any chance of arriving on time. He gave a wry grin as memories of his father's lessons on punctuality and the importance of keeping your word in face of any odds stacked against you. He had a deadline and he intended to meet it. He wouldn't have long to wait as he soon arrived at the ports, dismounting and having Night Strider's reigns in hand made his way along the nearest dock, a man dressed in clothes befitting the Dothraki yelling to a group of men who appeared to be part of his crew.

The man was largely built, with skin the color of dark coffee, a peculiar drink Jon had once tried in Lys. Thickly muscled, broad and tall he was imposing too many an eye, yet Jon knew that the man was far from brutish despite his appearance. His head was shaved bald, a stray cloth wrapped around to shield it from the sun's merciless rays.

"Man the sails and prepare to raise anchor lads, the Captain should be arriving any moment and you know he don't like to be kept waiting," the man ordered, met by a chorus of "Aye Quartermaster," as they went back to their work.

Jon smirked as he lowered the hood and said loudly, "Always good to know that my ship is in very capable hands Adé."

Adéwalé turned sharply at the familiar voice, a broad and energetic grin stretching across his features. "Captain Snow," he said loudly while moving forward, clasping Jon's forearm and his shoulder once the younger man dismounted the mighty war horse. "Good to see you again after so long my friend," he said honestly, the rest of the crew shouting greetings and cheers as Jon returned the gesture and motioned for Ghost to stay at his side.

"To you as well Adé, but the time for a more then well-deserved reunion must be pushed aside for the moment, we have a schedule to keep," Jon said with a light and amused grin, releasing Adéwalé and moved for the gangplank with Ghost following close behind, slightly hesitant as the ship rocked in the increasingly rougher waters. Jon looked around at his crew and with natural ease set them in motion. "You heard mister Adé gentlemen, raise anchor and man the masts! We sail for Dorne!" Jon called as he made his way towards his personal quarters, smirking at the resounding cheers of his men as Adé took over.

"You heard the Captain, strap down all cargo in the hold, man the guns and weigh anchor you flea bitten dogs we set out for the Dornish isles," Adéwalé ordered as the men quickened their pace to comply and set out from the bleak harbors of the North. Jon gently closed the door behind Ghost, smirking as he heard the constant bombardment of feet against the deck and below echo around him. By the old gods he had missed being at sea with his crew, the sound of the water rocking the hull greeting him like an old friend.

Now inside his private quarters, Jon looked around the large space, ensuring everything was as he left it only a few months ago. The wooden walls and most of the furniture was stained to a dark shine, with maps, weapons and the stray piece of parchment adorning the large table that sat in the center of the room. A large cabinet filled with numerous wines and alcohols sat to the left, firmly under lock and key so that only Jon could distribute it under special circumstance. He still bore the scar from when one of his crew bought him a whore for the night and the daft man had offered her a few to many drinks while she waited for the Captain to arrive. That was one mistake that he had no intention of letting either himself or his men make ever again.

An armor rack sat to the side of a table, occupied by notes and books scattered all atop its faded varnished surface. However Jon knew that the furs and robes he wore now were not fit for sea fare, so with a smirk he went towards the back of his cabin, Ghost moving to lay down by the door and get a much needed nap.

Adéwalé had just been ready to take the ship out to sea when the sound of the Captain's quarter's door slamming open reached his ears. For the entire crew saw that Jon had once more taken the persona of the Black Wolf, and one of the many personalized garments worn by his famed alias. He wore a black and grey long overcoat that fell to mid-calf, unbuttoned and revealing the grey and dark blue cotton shirt and vest underneath. Long black breeches of corduroy exported from Casterly Rock tucked into knee high boots of fine leather, while a hood with tattered edges lay pooled at his neck, with his hidden blades concealed within the long sleeves of the coat. Longclaw was sheathed proudly at his hip, with the crossbow slung over his shoulder and his dragonglass dagger sheathed at his side within the confines of his coat.

Looking up, Jon's eyes had taken a hard glint as he moved forward towards the bow of the ship and said as he passed, "Take us away Quartermaster, I think it best not to keep the Lady Martell waiting any longer." No more words were spoken and no one questioned his orders as Adé nodded and spun the wheel, taking the ship out to the White Knife and to Jon's new life in the South.

Jon was thankful that the winds were on their side, cutting another month off of their already long and arduous journey. Including the necessary port visits to resupply and let the men ease off the naval life, Jon felt confident they would arrive in Dorne with a minimum of two days before the agreed upon date for his wedding to Arianne Martell.

Jon supposed that his old self, not more than a boy of ten and four years would have fought tooth and nail to become independent and desperately try to prove himself to Lord Stark. He'd also more than likely have fled to the Night's Watch and taken the black. But now he was older, wiser then he had ever been and knew that some things must be faced head on and made to work to your advantage. Such as his recent and rather unprecedented legitimization and the hastily contracted marriage to Arianne Martell. Which he noted rather dryly, suited his and his Khalessi's plans and purposes just fine.

Jon could only hope that through this arrangement he and Arianne could find some measure of happiness, perhaps maybe even coming to love each other as his father and Lady Catelyn had. Although Jon knew that it would take time in order to let alone earn her trust, not bothering to mention her love. Jon sighed heavily as he paced along the deck, hands behind his back and hood down as he gazed out over the calm seas.

"I only hope that Sansa, Arya, Bran and father are doing well in King's Landing," he mused as he went below decks for his daily exercises, hoping to pass what little time remained of his journey.

* * *

Jon was in fact asleep when the ship made land in Dorne, yet this was not the sleep of an untroubled man. Jon tossed and turned, his body slicked and carrying a light sheen from cold sweat as his eyes behind closed lids dashed back and forth. His limbs shook and his breath rattled as he clutched at the covers over his naked torso. He grunted and moaned yet he did not wake, his mind trapped by visions and images most foul and black. Jon seemed near screaming when the persistent sound of three bangs echoed off of his door. Jon's eyes snapped open in an instant, jumping to his feet and with his hidden blades triggered. His hair plastered to a slick brow as he looked around frantically, eyes sharp and cold as he felt his heart beat like a hammer in his chest. Frost had gathered around him in an erratic circle, jagged lances of the ice piercing the air as gentle steam rose off the sub-zero temperature element.

However once a crewmen had shouted for the Captain to arrive on deck, Jon stilled his mind and drew a shuttering breath. Slowly he felt his muscles and body relax, his heart steadying into a normal rhythm. Looking down Jon grimaced and mentally scolded himself at the momentary loss of control and quickly reasserted command and willed the ice to vanish as it drew into his body and turned into a blue mist like energy. Feeling the light loss of fatigue and his body soothed to normal Jon sighed as he stood tall, cracking his neck and the resounding pops bringing a sigh of relief from his chest. Running his left hand through his hair, Jon moved towards his gear, quickly donning his shirt and coat; drawing the hood to rest and shield his face from view.

_'Those same dreams again,'_ he thought sourly, his face set into as small scowl as he belted on the remainder of his equipment, laying the crossbow over his shoulder just as the same crewmen arrived once more.

"Captain! We are about half a league out and Mister Adé requested your presence on deck." With his message delivered, the man left with the sound of heavy footfalls accompanying him. Jon only gave a hollow chuckle as he whistled for Ghost and Watcher to follow him, the great bird perching on his shoulder and cawing in apparent excitement as the odd group made their way to the deck and the first step in the long road ahead for the young man from the North.

Jon had to squint sharply in order to protect his eyes from the harsh morning rays of the sun, the sound of crashing waves and shouts among his crew echoing around him in a symphony he was all too familiar with as they neared the small port town of Planky Town. A rather… Perplexing name in Jon's opinion. The town itself was small, large by most Westeros trading center standards, yet in comparison to even White Harbor or Winterfell it was sorely lacking. Yet he had little time to think on the matter as he wiped at his brow, sweat trailing down the nape of his neck as he glanced balefully at the crystalline water. By the gods he hated the heat. His brow had already begun to trickle with sweat once more, which carried with it a light sheen as the scorching sun beat down on the deck of the _Northern Fang._ Jon was quick to lower his hood and wipe at his brow once more, eyes stung from a stray bead of sweat that had managed to fall into his eyes.

"Gods damn this infernal heat and sun!" Jon groused as he quickly divested himself of his coat and shirt, exposing the pale skin and scarred torso from his years in the North and training with his mentor and Uncle Benjen beyond the Wall. His crew all laughed at seeing Jon mutter darkly to himself as they themselves were dressed in light clothing and free of shirts or tunics. Ghost seemed to agree with them, looking at Jon in apparent amusement as Watcher only flew high and perched on the main mast and cawed into the skies. "Ungrateful beasts," Jon muttered scowling, belting the rest of his weaponry where it had been under the coat and shirt.

Looking out towards the helm, Jon saw Adéwalé smirk at him chuckling aloud as Jon rolled his eyes in annoyance and moved towards the main mast and began his ascent to the crow's-nest. The stiff and soothing ocean winds had been a sole solace for Jon during the journey. One in that it helped make the venture take far less time, and second it was his only source of relief from the warmer climate of the Southern half of the continent. Jon skillfully maneuvered his way across the masts and sails, hauling himself up and settling down with his legs swung out over the side. His hair flew in the winds as he gazed at the horizon.

The dark skies and clear waters soothed his troubled mind, hand idly tracing the scars that marred his skin and body. Some were clean and white as snow, yet others were jagged and would shine light pink in the reflecting light of sun or moon. He unconsciously clenched his right hand, the skin on the inner most portion of his palm waxy and pale from the burn he had suffered saving Commander Mormont from a Wight a few years ago. Sometimes he felt that dealing with life and death situations were far simpler than the political and scheming factor of the game.

Jon soon however felt his eyes begin to grow heavy as the sounds of birds and the gentle rock of the waves eased him into a lulled sense of peace. It seemed as well that the fatigue and lack of sleep had finally begun to catch up to him. Jon swiftly laid back upon the cool wood of the nest, until the sound of shouts and cries reached his ears. Bolting up, Jon looked down to the deck and watched as the crew ran about in controlled chaos as he had called it long ago.

Jon was up to his feet instantly, running towards the main mast on sure feet. Flicking his wrist Jon released the hidden blade, slicing the rope binding the counter weight to the main deck as he grabbed the rope and began falling towards the deck below. Jon was the picture of calm and composed as he dashed past the rising weight and slammed down into a crouch on the deck, releasing the rope and calmly making his way towards the helm and the visibly tense Adéwalé.

"What's going on Adé?" he asked as Ghost and Watcher moved to join their master.

Adé looked at Jon and grimaced as he spun the wheel as far as he dared, bringing the ship around towards port. "We're being searched by some sellswords from House Martell. Some pirates attacked the port a week ago and now their checking everyone for suspicious cargo. Shouldn't be much more trouble than that Captain," he answered, however Jon was not fooled and scowled as he laid a hand on Longclaw's hilt.

Having simple sellswords search ships coming into port for suspicious activity? It made little to no sense to Jon, not when if the threat of pirates were true, knights being better trained and _loyal_ to the Martell banners beyond the coin in their pockets would be far more effective. Jon sensed something was amiss, and knew to be wary.

Jon scowled as he looked at the group of eight armored men waiting for them to dock. Each adorned in the light leather and cloth of the Dornish, inlayed by burned copper and red gold. They each carried a longsword, with one of their number wielding a seven foot spear with its tip appearing to try and pierce the heavens. It was adorned by a two foot blade with a single fuller and falling to cover the last foot of the shaft of the spear.

They were armed to the teeth, each man's face dark in tone and utterly blank of expression. No emotion, no discernable feeling at all...it unsettled Jon. The young man narrowed his eyes, and motioned for Ghost and Watcher to leave him as the great beast moved towards Jon's quarters with Watcher close behind him.

Adéwalé gave Jon a searching look as Jon moved and gathered the tether lines and prepared to throw them towards the dock hands.

"What are you doing Captain?" the large man asked curiously, brows moving together in a squint. He had served with the Captain since he was but a child, and knew better than most to be wary of a silent Jon Snow.

Jon for his part only smirked impishly at his Quartermaster and said, "Springing the trap Mister Adé."

Adéwalé only smirked roguishly in response and shook his head with a laugh, as the gangplank settled on dock as the armored men ascended on deck.

* * *

**And thus the second part of our tale is complete, with Jon now in the homeland of his bride to be. What will he do and how will the first meeting between our hero and the lovely princess of Dorne go? Who knows?**

**Oh yeah, I do.**

**So please read and review and keep an eye out. Chapter three is about half way done. As a side note, chapter two of Hunter of the Force is being worked on and is about a fifth of the way done, while Black Rider is in the early stages. And chapter five of Dark Knight is still being edited, so hold tight.**

**Anyway, later. Oh and before I forget, Tubī daor means not today in High Valyrian according to HBO at least.**

**Edit: July 9 2015: I went back and changed some of the grammatical errors and misspelled words, but I think I missed a few so be mindful of that. Also chapter three of Hunter of the Force is about a third done, while Black Rider chapter two is almost a fifth. And I will be starting chapter four of this story soon, just got to let my muse work her excess energy off and get a chance to focus on this as she is currently preoccupied with other fics that have yet to be published.**

**Later!**


	3. First Impressions

**To answer what I feel might become a rather frequently asked question as to why Daenerys is okay with Jon marrying and sleeping with other women, the Targaryens' in fact had sister wives or multiples in some cases throughout their history. And this is also fanfiction, so I can make it so Arianne and Daenerys are perhaps more okay with sharing than they would be if let's say dear old George decided to do it himself.**

**Not to mention that since the actual sharing is between two houses that are already close through marriage and ancestry, it might be overlooked. So in light of that Arianne and Daenerys might be more willing to do something like that.**

**Because, as crazy as it sounds, incest or in essence keeping the bloodline 'pure' was important in most ancient monarchies and it heavily influenced the decisions they made in regards to marriages. Hell, look at Ancient Egypt… It's probably the most brilliant example of the ideology at its finest.**

**Besides, if incest is a common theme in this world of Mr. Martins…the fact it is illegal notwithstanding; sharing a husband, particularly when one of the people in question is a product of sister wives and inbreeding down a long family history might be willing to accept it. Besides, Jon don't get enough love! Any flames or comments derogatory to this will also be promptly ignored. Just giving you a heads up on that.**

**Besides this is essentially AU so bear with it please, that is all I ask.**

**Hope that cleared some things up. And an edit here, doing some research I also discovered that one of the Targaryens' had _eight_ wives. No kids but still... Jeez either he was that good or Westeros had its own version of Henry the Eighth. Who decided to get it out of the way early I guess by marrying all the women who caught his fancy.**

**And... A little tidbit for something Jon will discover during his journey. Fyre black as night and given form. As hard and as sharp as dragon scales.**

**Can you guess? God I love holding shit like this back for later! Anyway, on with the show!**

* * *

The sellswords walked aboard unhindered, smirks hidden only through supreme will as they assessed the potential threat of these Northerners. Eight pairs of eyes darting between each member of the crew in quick succession, analytical and nearly condescending as they appeared unconcerned that the Northerners would prove much of a threat to them. All that mattered to them was the job, and anything of value they could pilfer off these Northern bastards after it was said and done.

However, they were one and all weary of the tall, dark skinned man manning the helm; the numerous scars and war paints underneath his eyes and upon his face depicting him as a member of the slaves from the Essos deserts. Perhaps even a Dothraki warrior, judging by his size that was only emphasized by the number and severity of his scars.

They then turned their attention to the Captain himself. A man, slightly darker in tone than those generally of the North; with a neat beard, black locks falling to his shoulders with hard and wild purple-black eyes. A bastard sword hung from his hip, a snarling wolf's head adorning the pommel; with a strange dagger fashioned with a hilt wrapped in wire and leather hung by his lower torso. A small smile adorned the Northerner's face, his demeanor appearing to be kind and welcoming yet a feeling of unease settled within the sellswords stomachs at the sight. The Captain's arms were spread wide in welcome, beckoning them forward with a wave of his hand. Only one of the sellswords number remained hesitant, finding the man's mood unfitting of one generally found beyond the Neck. Even now his instincts demanded he simply leave and never return so as to avoid the sense of peril that accompanied the ship's captain.

"Welcome aboard gentlemen, I trust that this inspection can get underway," the Captain asked jovially, the youngest of the party of sellswords momentarily stunned by the scars adorning the other man's chest. They set the younger man on edge, eyeing Jon distrustfully as they moved toward the hatch leading below deck. The crew avoided their eyes, focused solely on their individual tasks as the Captain and the Quartermaster led the sellswords below.

"It looks like the Captain ain't lost his touch just yet eh?" a young lad of twenty and three said, brown hair falling to his neck and watching with a wicked smirk as he saw Jon look at the crew and give a steady glare; before stiffly nodding his head before sealing the hatch.

"Quit yer yapping for fuck's sake Stormborn! We got work to do!" another man, his eyes dark and cold as he swung along the rigging and ascended on high yelled down in frustration. The now named Stormborn huffed in response and deftly lifted another crate to rest on his shoulder, shaking his head and grumbling under his breath as he made his way to gangplank; steadily and quietly helping his crewmates unload the rest of the cargo while the Captain did his work.

* * *

While below decks, Jon watched the eight mercenaries intently; waiting for them to make a move as they travelled deeper into the bowels of _his_ ship. Jon's gut had never failed him yet, and now it warned of great danger from these few men. He would not be defeated by mere mercenaries, not when so many were depending on him to succeed here. Not when countless others had fallen to his blades, both here and beyond the Wall. Jon would bide his time, and wait for the opportunity to strike should it ever arise. It was how he had been trained after all.

For Jon, that moment never came soon enough. For the instant he brought the men within the main hold to, as they claimed inspect his wares, they sprung upon him as one mass; their weapons drawn and bared to shed Northern blood in a flash of lusterless steel. Jon was far quicker however, much to the mercenaries' surprise. He leapt to the side as he bared his own weapons, intimidating as well as creating some distance between himself and the mob of attackers; something rather vital in such an enclosed space. Jon reached out to his left and swiftly pulled a lever by his head for just such an occasion, bathing the room into darkness as the hatches placed along the viewports were swiftly closed. The last thing any of these men would ever see, were flashes of iridescent blue eyes as blood cascaded to the floor in great rivers from their throats. Stumbling and falling upon one another in the blood of their allies they screamed a final defiance and in terror as the light soon faded from their eyes and the blackness became their final visions of the land of the living.

Adéwalé stood silent as the screams of the men finally died out; his eyes hard and cold as he kept any of the nosier dock hands aboard from prying to close as they were guided by the crew to areas in need of resupply or material for trade. Three hard knocks alerted him that the deed was done as the tall Dothraki swiftly opened the door, unmindful of the blood dripping from Jon's hands and the blades tucked in at his wrists.

"Well? Did you find what you were looking for Captain?" he asked promptly once Jon had rechecked and straightened his clothes and begun to lead them towards the main deck. Jon remained silent as he idly wiped at some beads of blood that had landed upon him from his attack, the ruby colored droplets leaving the faintest trace upon his cheeks and torso as he made his way through the bowels of the great ship with Adé at his side.

"Pirates Adé, this far South though I'm not all that surprised," Jon admitted grimly, nodding occasionally to any crew members they passed. "Members of a syndicate I thought I had taken care of back in Lys a year ago, turned to mercenary work in light of my…clean up as it were." Jon admitted as the two easily released the hatch and clambered into sunlight once again.

Adéwalé only laughed as he made his way down the gangplank and grabbed a bottle of summerwine and took a steep drink before speaking. He was not troubled, he had shed his fair share of blood fighting alongside his friend. Besides a little more was not uncommon in Westeros after all. "Well it seems they will trouble us no more thanks to you Captain. Now come, we have much to do before you set out to meet the lovely Lady Martell."

Jon only smirked with a shake of his head as he followed his friend into the small markets of Planky Town, the echoing sounds of laughter and boisterous cackles of joy meeting the two men's ears as they went to join their crew in the merriment. And as the daylight began to fade the crew eventually returned to the ship, unwilling to trust their home to any but each other. Some walking with the swagger and slur of fine wine and ale, while others still smelled of a peculiar musk, the local brothel having raked in quite the fortune that day.

* * *

Late that night Jon sat alone in comfortable silence within his cabin, a book propped on one knee as the glow of a single candle burnt bright at his side. Ghost and Watcher lay in silence nearby, with the gentle rocking of the ship lulling them into a peaceful sleep. Jon however was alert and focused, his eyes tracing the ancient glyphs and sigils faded yet still so clear to the young lord upon the ancient paper.

Each page withered and worn from age at being confined in Castle Black, images and notes from Watcher's past depicting their tales and journeys beyond the safety of the castles along the Wall. Jon couldn't help but feel a solitary kinship with the unnamed men and women who manned the sole defense against the Walkers. These men and women who had sacrificed everything to protect the lands they once called home. The lands that had, for all intents and purposes forsaken these people to the mists of obscurity and anonymity.

Jon only sighed as he closed the leather bound book, the pattern atop the front cover faded from age and the sands of time. He had so many questions and yet seemed unable to find any answers…even in the legends and recounts of warriors of old. Gently Jon laid the book upon the nightstand, willing the ice in his blood to extinguish the feeble flame of the candle as sleep beckoned him. His task done as darkness closed around him, Jon felt his eyes grow heavy as fatigue began to set in like a gentle warmth.

Laying his head back, Jon gazed into the grained wood of the cabin roof; letting the gentle sway bring him to a hopefully dreamless sleep. Slowly, his eyes drifted farther and farther down, until at last all Jon saw was the darkness of the abyss.

However, Jon should have known that such wishful thinking was far out of his reach. Jon tossed and thrashed about all night, his teeth gnashed and groans of pain echoing in the pitch black of his cabin late into the evening. Ice, slowly as if in summer thrall began to crawl along the sheets, spreading down and towards the floor as Jon's emotions spiraled further into havoc.

Thankfully as the sun began to crest over the horizon and spears of light illuminated the room did our young hero settle into a peaceful few hours of rest, the ice vanishing as if it never existed at all.

* * *

The next morning Jon opened his eyes blearily as the light lanced across his face, the dark grey eyes sharp as finely edged steel. Jon groaned as he lifted his left arm to block the sun, groggy and sluggish as his body tried to fully awaken. Jon swung his feet out to rest atop the floor, his bangs obscuring his sleep encrusted eyes as he absently reached for his blades, the twin bracers resting atop the same stand as the book.

Jon sighed as his hand came into contact with cold steel, yawning loudly and shakily rising to his feet, running his hand through his hair and making towards the wardrobe. For soon, Jon was going to meet his future wife. A thought that still sent his mind reeling as he remembered Daenerys last words to him before he returned to Westeros.

_"I know the journey is fraught with peril before you my love, but know that I am always here waiting for you to return to my arms so that we may face it together. And fear not if you should take another to your bed or your heart. I have carved out but a niche for myself, and I will admit only to you it is for myself alone. The rest is yours to make of it Jon. Don't waste it. Use it for the good of Westeros...for us. Now ride hard and true so that when the time is right you may return to me, whole and unharmed. I love you so much."_

He smiled gently as he recalled the gentle sway of her silvery hair as she held his hands between her own, and the honest sincerity within her eyes as she permitted him to take another to his bed and his life. The thought made him weary at first, until he had done some digging and discovered the rather prevalent tradition practiced by the Targaryens to take on multiple lovers or wives. A mindset the Daenerys had apparently embraced after he admitted his love for her before he left for the North. But he could think about that at a later time, he needed to be ready, and distraction might only get him killed in the land of Serpents.

* * *

Morning soon turned to mid-day as Jon sat in silence on the dock, waiting for his crew to retrieve his means of getting to Sunspear from the lower decks; his hood drawn forth and his original set of fur, leather and steel armor stored away to be delivered upon his arrival and settling into Sunspear. The set he wore now was a dark and vibrant red in colour, mixed with a collection of black and gold trims; pieces of Valyrian steel making up a majority of the overlaying components. Including a single pauldron on his left shoulder, that had been fashioned into the head of a snarling wolf to match with the etchings atop his greaves.

"Captain!" a familiar voice cried, causing Jon to look to his left and see Adéwalé approach; Strider in tow as the great beast seemed to bask in the fresh air and sun of the South. Jon smirked as he moved towards them; Ghost and Watcher close on his heels.

"About time Adé, I was beginning to fear I might have to travel to Sunspear on foot," Jon joked, clapping the taller man on the back.

Adéwalé only laughed with a shake of his head, propping his hands on his hips and watching as Jon quickly saddled Strider and prepared for departure. "You must have more faith in me Captain," he said with a conspiratorial grin as Jon continued to adjust the straps to ensure a good fit. "For have I ever led you astray or caused you to question my integrity?" the large Dothraki asked with a grin and open arms as he looked at Jon. Said hooded man stopped then, glanced at Adé in a single moment and spoke.

"Lys brothel incident," he deadpanned simply, laughing internally as Adé looked stricken for a split second and then schooled his features into a faux grimace.

"You will never let me forget that will you?" the tall Dothraki asked sadly, the wicked smirk that slowly spread across his face causing Jon to chuckle as he finished saddling Strider.

"No Adé I don't think I will," Jon admitted with laugh as he quickly mounted the black stallion and set about checking his equipment and supplies. "Considering that you planned on whoring me out to the Madam and her best sellers to pay for your own nightly excursions for the next week," he finished with a half-hearted glare, one that only caused Adéwalé to laugh aloud.

"A man has many needs Captain," he preached moving to stand next to Jon as the armored rider prepared for departure, "That is but one of them, and a means to…satisfy it, in more ways than one." he finished with a shrug looking at his quiet friend. Jon only laughed before he gave a shrill whistle, nodding as Ghost and Watcher moved to his sides; the great bird circling overhead.

"Then I suggest you find another means of payment next time old friend," Jon said seriously, mirth alight in his eyes as he flicked the reigns and felt Strider begin to trot. Jon looked back at Adéwalé as he moved through the streets of Planky Town and said, "After all, I have a feeling that neither my betrothed, nor Daenerys would take too kindly to me being whored out to pay for his friends nightly fees."

Adéwalé only laughed with his head bowed back as Jon bolted forward and, with his beasts in tow vanished into the distance as if the hounds of the Others' themselves were hot on his heels. And there upon the dock did Adéwalé remain, watching as Jon Stark made great haste for Sunspear, and to meet his bride-to-be.

"Good luck, old friend," he whispered quietly before he spun on his heels and set out for the _Fang,_ awaiting his old friends call.

* * *

Jon Stark rode for three days and nights, praying to the gods that he would reach Sunspear in time. From what his father had told him, Prince Doran was currently indisposed at the Water Gardens; leaving Jon's betrothed, the Princess Arianne as the governing ruler of Dorne in place of her father's younger brother. A man that Jon was acquainted with in more than just reputation and local legend among the fighting rings. Prince Oberyn Martell…known only in reputation and infamy as the Red Viper. An avid warrior and user of the dark arts, Oberyn Martell had most assuredly earned such a moniker.

Poison was one of the Viper's greatest, and most frequently used weapons. One and all it was said, each blade in his possession bathed to the tip in the most powerful toxins the world of Westeros had ever encountered. A passion, the Viper seemed to share with his daughter Tyene Sand; a member of the infamous Sand Snakes. Jon could only look grim as he felt the ever ensnaring phantom jaws of the snake close around his wrist and pierce his veins. However, Jon had his own cards to play. He would show the Viper that not all creatures bow to so small a beast. For even the most toxic of creatures, bow to the all-consuming fury of winter and ice.

Jon soon crested a small hill and drew Strider to a halt as Ghost strode to his side and let his tongue hang free in the now fading Dornish heat. Watcher too showed some displeasure as well, ruffling his fathers and squawking angrily as they moved down the hill. Jon noted the small mud–bricked hovels and low class shops outside the large stone walls, all leading to a heavily guarded area of the city. The Threefold Gate, the title given to the three gates that lined up one by one that lead directly to the Old Palace.

"And so he walks unhindered into the fiery maw of the Pit," he murmured darkly, eyes narrowed as the cloudless skies and the beaming sun cast light on all in his path. A click of the tongue and Jon was on his way, teeth bared in a wolfish grin as he felt excitement course through him. He loved a challenge. And finding a way to escape Sunspear should things take a turn was just one he would enjoy trying to solve.

The young Stark received numerous odd stares and gaping mouths as he and his little band of beasts moved closer to Sunspear and her walls. His armor and weapons screamed and raved to one and all of 'outsider' and a man not born of these coastal towns and cities.

Jon snorted as they gave him wide berth, Ghost standing tall and ever silent at his side as dust from the sand kicked up around the steady fall of hooves and paws. Strider snorted and shook his head, mane flying wildly as he breathed heavily. The thick black coat of the great beast was burning even Jon's back and knees from the intensity of the heat. Yet even now he could feel as the shadows of the walls gave Strider a well-deserved reprieve. Whispers followed him to the gates, the guards clad in leather and mail stood tall and silent, gazes unflinching and stoic.

As Jon drew near, a rather stout man a head shorter than the young Northern man approached cautiously, hand tight atop the leather grip at the center of the shaft of his spear. He appeared to Jon as a man of slightly higher rank if it were possible, than those he could see at the edges of the mouth of the gates and beyond until now. The man's weapons well cared for, yet still marked by the passage of time.

Jon felt his eyes narrow as he shifted ever so gently, the familiar presence of his dagger all too reassuring in his grip once more. The guard, perhaps the Captain if Jon's guess was correct moved with purposeful strides, dark eyes calm and sharp.

"Halt traveller, what business do you have in the capital?" the man asked, Jon, now surprised at the unexpected high timber to the voice of one he assumed to be far more gruff; balked for the briefest moment. He knew however that a first impression was key and thus responded accordingly.

He drew the hood down and watched in satisfaction as the guards eyes widened, taking in the dark grey eyes and black hair common from those of the North. Jon gave a light nod, Watcher flying down to perch on his shoulder and examined the guard.

"Pardon the intrusion good ser, but I believe the Lady of the lands is expecting me," Jon said with a smirk, leaning back in the saddle to rest his hand against the pommel of his blade. Watcher fluttered his wings and gazed balefully at the guard and spoke. His odd trill composed of only one word.

"_King, King, King," _the crow cried, shocking the guard into stupefied silence as he nodded his head mutely, gesturing for the gates. Jon nodded politely as with a flick of the reigns the odd band moved towards the stone gate, Jon watching as a sentry upon the wall dashed down towards the palace, most likely to inform his betrothed of his arrival. Almost by instinct did his hand soon reach back to clutch at fine cloth, as with a soft pull Jon sheathed his head in shadows once more.

The young rider stayed silent along the worn stone path, eyes shadowed and dark as they drift across the land leading to his new home. The walls bleached by the sun, one and all great expanses of marble and sandstone as tall as three men guided him, Jon's instincts near an unpleasant buzz in the back of his mind. Jon glanced slightly to his left and on high, narrowing his grey eyes upon seeing the form nearly hidden by shadows now cast by low sun. Ghost panted at his master's side, the blood red eyes of the large and trusted wolf unflinching and wise.

Jon laid a comforting hand upon the back of Ghost's neck, the long bleached fur soft and warm to the touch. Jon felt a melancholy grin grow upon his lips slowly running his hand through the beast's coat, now a reminder of a home long beyond his reach. However Jon knew he couldn't let that weaken him. His family and his own plans were now dependent on the next few months and it would be imperative to get Dorne on his side. All he needed now… Was to ensure he did not receive a knife between his ribs in the middle of the night from his betrothed.

The odd group moved along the stone path, the guards stationed at the gate wary at the sight of the direwolf and the larger than average raven perched on the rider's shoulder. Jon's armor did little to ease their fear, as the fearsome sight of the snarling Valyrian direwolf head sent chills down the backs of many who had begun to gaze through the palace windows. The dark red and gold robes lain underneath the telltale black of Valyrian steel set many on edge. For it took considerable time to amass the gold necessary to acquire such rare steel. As to say nothing of the man's somber and dark look, the array of weapons in plain view a clear warning to any potential aggressor. Yet to one in particular, it only piqued her curiosity all the more.

* * *

Arianne Martell watched as the strange and well-armed man rode to the palace gates. The heiress to the House of Martell and the province of Dorne, Arianne was considered the most sought after woman in the southern provinces. Luscious hair that fell to mid back in ringlets of dark brown, olive toned skin and sharp intelligent eyes upon an angular and feminine face with full lips and unblemished skin. She favoured her mother, the late Lady Mellario of Norvos in height, standing but two inches over five feet with large full breasts and bountiful curves. For a woman of twenty and eight, Arianne was still in the prime of her life and looked not a day over twenty.

Lush silks and lavish garments of velvet and satin draped across her form in blues and silver; in complete opposite to the man who now currently held her attention at her gates. Arianne hummed as she watched the strange garbed warrior, for he could be nothing else, dismount and speak to one of her guards; her mind going a thousand leagues to the light of the sun as the guard gave a quick bow and rushed inside.

"I wonder," she mused, her mind flashing to the contract her father had recently written between her and House Stark. Could the man at her gates be the man promised to her? Whilst at first Arianne had fought her father for weeks on the matter, at last she had seen just how beneficial the matter could be to their family. Access to the North, a region of Westeros loyal to her husband to be and greater than the other six provinces united… All merely a raven away from Dorne's aid. And to also allow the two Houses to diffuse the hostility between them that had surfaced in the aftermath of Robert's rise to the throne.

But Arianne had been too curious to leave the choice to chance. And thus she had her own means of information, beyond her father's reach to better ensure she received all of what was necessary and not what her father deemed important only.

Arianne's own agents in Winterfell had sent letters over the last few weeks, describing the state of the keep and its inhabitants. Many fraught with the same day to day dreariness and bone rattling chill from the frozen lands. Soon however the letters grew in frequency and depth, spinning fantastical tales of beasts lost to myth and the humiliation of Prince Joffrey at the hands of a man baring a very strong resemblance to the stranger now at her gates. Yet none had been more telling than the letters concerning the return of Lord Stark's bastard son, and the apparent revival and joy he brought with him to the Stark children and the Warden of the North.

The princess of Dorne had found herself captivated by the myth and aura put to page that surrounded the man. To leave the only home he had known in the dead of night and to head for the Wall, Arianne thought him either very foolish or very brave to dare enter there. Then at the most random, though she did not think so herself, time in five years the boy now a man… had returned. Welcomed into Winterfell with open arms and wide smiles; thwarting a plot to slay Lord Eddard Stark orchestrated by the now dead Targaryen Prince, Viserys without fear and with not but his own two hands.

Just thinking about the recount Arianne felt heat and curiosity flash through her body, her dark eyes shining in the Dorne sun as she strode with purpose to the ornate doors of the master room. She would get the answers she sought, and perhaps even get a particular itch scratched for her troubles. Perhaps for more than just tonight as well.

* * *

Jon at that moment felt a chill down his back and his instincts flash in warning, the action and feeling so sudden he had nearly unsheathed Longclaw in response to the supposed threat. His hand now resting atop the hilt of his blade, Jon's eyes swept over the ornate and lavish main hall of the palace, unable to prevent a light snort at seeing the colours of his armor matched by near everything in sight.

"Now I know why father had this sent along with the remainder of my belongings," the young warrior said dryly with a wry smirk, letting out a bark like laugh as Ghost seemed to hold a wolfish grin at his master.

At the sound of a door slamming closed, Jon spun round in and instant. His eyes hard and flinty as he bared an inch of Longclaw's blacked steel, body coiled and placed near a crouch, knees bent and spaced shoulder width apart as he faced his would be threat.

Only to come face to face with one of the most beautiful women he had laid eyes upon. Yet his instincts forced him to tear away from such beauty, now focused on the group of women gathered at the landing above him and his companion. Time enough to bask in her radiance once things were set upon their course.

Three were full grown, standing tall in the shadows, all feminine if his eyes dared not deceive him. All positioned protectively behind a group of young girls; the eldest being possibly fourteen staring at him in blatant curiosity. It took nary a second for him to recall the rumors surrounding one individual in Dorne in particular for their identities to click within his mind. Jon felt his mouth curve the barest fraction into a passable smirk, bowing his head slightly to the Sand Snakes; each seeming caught off guard by the gesture. Until, a voice like finest summer wind caressed his mind and soul, drifting among the space around him like a fictitious fog. Just as _she _had done to him so many years ago.

"I do not know whether to be insulted or intrigued by such a reaction to my presence Lord Stark," the woman said playfully, her eyes alight in mischief and barely able to disguise their cunning and quick-wit. Jon turned to her at once, his mind sharp and able to clear of her spell, a small part of him, that which gave birth to the wolf that rose from the grave of the boy who died beyond the Wall only wishing to take her and claim her as his own.

Jon crushed the impulse before it could gain ground as he gave the woman a short bow, eyes never leaving her own as he did; noting the little shiver that racked her form at the intensity of his gaze. He couldn't help but feel some part of his dominant half swell in pride at the reaction.

"Forgive me for the slight offence dear lady," he apologized moving to stand upright once more, noting the rather large gap in height between them. "But to be struck by such beauty in a place so foreign to me, it caught me most assuredly off guard," he praised, gently reaching out and moving her hand so as to kiss the back of her knuckles.

Arianne seemed quite taken with the gesture, eyes showing a deep intrigue as they studied the young Northerner before her, and the one who was to be her husband. Bell like peals of soft laughter sung from her lips as she felt Jon's lips brush against a sensitive place upon her hand. The Princess of Dorne felt her body flash with a volcanic heat at the scorching gaze lain upon her from the shadowed eyes of her betrothed. And she felt herself mildly impressed in her father's judgement.

Jon Stark possessed an air about himself, one Arianne was most intrigued with. She had heard telltale of a man cloaked in similar garb as being an experienced wanderer of the lands far to the North. Where each day or so she was told was a mere battle for survival and she could near sense such an aura around her husband to be. She felt a demure smile grow upon her lips as she looked the younger man from head to toe. She licked her lips slowly, her core dampened by the mere thought of seeing the man before her in his bare glory and all to herself, for the time being at least if her information was to be believed. Oh she would have fun with this one indeed.

The two nobles were shattered from the moment however at a great bang from the door to the left of them. Jon acted on instinct, placing himself between Arianne and the door, his twin hidden blades bared to the world as he crouched and made to attack. Yet at the sight of the frightened and slightly frail older man with message in hand, Jon stilled himself with but a second thought, instinct sharpened and honed now buried deep within the snow and ice of his soul.

Jon gazed at the terrified man for a few seconds before offering a stiff tilt of the head, the echo if the hidden blades vanishing from sight sounding through the great chamber and catching the ear of all present. The messenger seemed deeply rattled by the display from Jon, but managed to collect himself well enough to face his Lady.

"Milady, news reaches us from King's Landing," he proclaimed, bowing low and falling to one knee. Lifting his head he gazed hesitantly upon Lady Arianne, his stance fearful and near frantic as Jon stayed between Arianne and himself. "King Robert has called a tournament to be held in one-and-a-half months' time in honor of the appointment his new Hand, Eddard Stark… And he has summoned each House to attend, with the Prince Consort and Princess of Dorne as guests of honor in light of the successful marriage between the Houses of Stark and Martell alongside the Prince Consort Lord Stark's legitimization."

Arianne lifted her chin, narrowing her eyes upon the frightened messenger as her betrothed glanced back at her, his dark grey eyes searching and sharp upon her out the corner of her eye. She held no love for Robert, arrogant and drunken pig of a man that he was, but she'd heard tell-tale of the noble Eddard Stark. A man who held loyalty and honor above all… Who had turned his back on and forsaken his loyalty to their new King because of what he and Tywin Lannister had done to her Aunt and cousins during the Sack of King's Landing. Arianne felt herself intrigued to meet her soon to be good father, not to mention, perhaps this journey would provide her the chance to learn about her betrothed beyond the wedding her father seemed to have planned to occur in the following days. An action a little out of the ordinary for her, yet she knew that perhaps now would be the time to put her own plans into motion.

And what better place to start then the capital?

* * *

Arianne smiled sinfully so in Jon's eyes as she seemed to think about it for but a few moments, tapping a delicate olive toned finger against her chin, gazing out the window. The messenger remained as he was, unmoving and still as a tree in the winter nights as Jon awaited Arianne's answer. He didn't need to wait long as Arianne stood straight, lowering her hand to rest against the supple and smooth skin of a toned and perplexingly, in Jon's eyes, tanned thigh.

"Have the caravan prepared and ready to set out for King's Landing in three days' time, ready to depart the morn after the wedding," she said softly, Jon once more struck by the sound of her voice now clear and strong. "Cousins, leave us if you please," Arianne ordered while glancing up to the balcony overlooking the hall as, one by one, Jon saw the infamous Sand Snakes rise to depart and give him and his wife to be a few moments of privacy. Yet each of them stared solely upon him as they did; an emotion Jon had seen often enough dominant in their eyes.

Aggression, tempered by a sliver of protective instinct as the Sand Snakes dared not leave their cousin alone with this well armed stranger willingly. Turning to face Jon and the messenger Arianne gave a small smile as she continued. "After all, there is much to do before we depart wouldn't you agree my lord?"

Jon crossed his arms and gave a tilt of his head, the hood covering his eyes from Arianne's view as he spoke.

"If that be true then I suggest we get started my lady." His voice echoed through Arianne's body like the toll of a bell, heat pooling in her core as she could already begin to imagine the deep and husky tone of the man whispering into her ear as he took her as his own.

Arianne smiled akin to a demure and innocent girl as Jon raised his head, Arianne catching the wry grin beholden on Jon's lips as the messenger watched the transaction between the two in shock. Arianne smiled until at last she noticed the continued presence of the messenger. In an instant, gone was the flirty and yet deceptively innocent woman. Before the messenger now was the future ruler of Dorne, a wry, cunning and intelligent woman with an entire province under her command.

Her decision made Arianne strode forward with her chin held high and proud, the luscious silks and vibrant shroud adorning her back fluttering in her wake as the messenger shot his eyes to the floor. Jon watched her like a hawk, his will faltering for a few moments as they traced the curve of her body and settled upon her plump and toned ass barely seen through the sheer silk. He was snapped from the trance only when Ghost bumped into his side, causing Jon to break his line of sight and look at the direwolf.

"Lord Stark," Arianne called, causing Jon to shift his gaze back to rest upon the Dornish princess, a knowing smirk formed with her full lips as she quirked a brow at the silent northerner. "If you would follow me please?" she asked with a tilt of her head towards a door on the left side of the room. "I believe we have much to discuss," she asked with a husky timbre, eyes smoldering in lust and arousal as she move towards the door, the clack of her sandals upon the marble floors echoing around Jon as he sighed before following after her.

* * *

Jon walked not but a few steps behind the beautiful Martell heiress, the sway of her hips oddly distracting as they moved through the halls and passage ways of the Old Palace, her black hair falling to rest just above the curve of her ass and lower back, drawing Jon's eyes almost subconsciously. After a few moments of realising where he was staring, Jon shook his head and snarled as quietly as he dared, reasserting control. He couldn't let his instincts run wild, not here. Where he had no allies and means of transport not within Arianne's immediate control. He had to remember that despite the cheery and welcoming disposition Adrianne presented to him, she was intelligent and ambitious, these qualities alone made her more dangerous to him than most anything else in Dorne. Although he had been trained to find any means of escape, Jon knew it would be far more difficult for any message to reach Adéwalé and the others should things take a rather…unexpected turn.

Thankfully Jon had still been focused enough to not run into Arianne as she suddenly stopped before a great door, bleached a tan colour from the sunlight streaming in through the stained glass window facing the setting sun. Turning to face him with a seductive smirk upon her lips Arianne gently pushed the doors in, revealing to Jon a rather extravagant room, furs and silks atop most of the surfaces. With a large assortment of furniture and items made from a mixture of steel and hardwoods found, if he recognized the grain correctly, in the Westerlands. Rather expensive materials and objects themselves he noted with a quirked brow, curious as to why they were here to begin with in what he recognized as a simple guest room.

"Is it to your liking Lord Stark?" Arianne asked kindly, crossing her arms under her bountiful bust as she moved to stand before the young lord, the scent of her intoxicating Jon as he watched the sun set behind her. The olive tone of her skin had shifted to a bronzed tan as she smiled at her betrothed, with her dark eyes near black from what he recognized as lust and hunger.

Jon stepped towards her, his tall and broad frame towering over the voluptuous and rather tiny woman, the wolf within clawing for control of his body and mind. His will however, iron clad and hard as the ice of the Wall stood strong as Jon merely leaned down and tilted his head to gaze into Arianne's eyes from behind black bangs. If he could tame the dragon of the House Targaryen, a woman of cloth and bathed by the light of the sun would be all too easy.

"It is more than adequate Milady," he whispered throatily, eyes flashing to wicked blue as he saw the shiver that traveled down Arianne's body. Her eyes had now closed as she tilted her head, baring the side of her throat in a sign of submission as Jon leaned down, his breath sending a shiver through the woman's body as his breath washed against her bared skin. Gently he pressed his lips against her tender and supple skin, the heat of her like a stoked fire against his cool lips. Laying kisses in a solitary line down to the crook of her neck, Jon slowly began baring his teeth and ever so softly pressing his sharp canines into the Dornish princess' neck. He began chuckling lightly in his chest as his inner wolf howled in triumph as Arianne trembled and released a delectable moan from his ministrations.

Arianne felt her eyelids flutter and her body grow hot as the young lordling marked her as his, his strong and calloused hands holding her wrists with the surety of iron manacles as he nipped her delicate flesh. Slowly she felt him drag her closer to his powerful frame, her breasts pressed tight against him as he moved back up and nibbled upon the lobe of her ear, a low growl echoing through his chest and sending a light vibration through her tits as she shivered against him.

Jon felt his arousal grow like a simmering fire as Arianne mewled in his ears as he continued his work. His hands gently trailed along her skin, relieving the woman of her silken shawl as her shoulders were bared to the world along with the upper portions of her luscious breasts; as the silken skin nearly spilled forth from the safety of her garments.

Feeling emboldened, Jon moved back to her ear, the hot swash of his breath against the shell of it causing Arianne to press herself tighter against him. "And is _this_ to your liking Milady," he asked devilishly as he released his grip from her wrists, Arianne threaded her now freed hands through his long locks of inky black hair. Jon noted idly that his hands were now pressed firmly against the curves of the noblewoman's waist and hips possessively as Arianne at last moved to capture Jon's lips with her own.

She kissed him hungrily, as her tongue surged into the younger highborn's mouth; purring deep in her throat as Jon hoisted her on high with his hands and held her aloft as his muscles tensed and became like steel to her touch. Yet as the two grew more emboldened and daring in their lust and passion, a loud knock on the chamber door snapped them from their heated exchange as Arianne jolted back with a gasp and the two gulped greedily for air.

"Dinner is ready milady and is waiting for you and Lord Stark in the main hall," the voice, most likely a chamberlain called through the thick wooden doors, until the two were left in silence once more.

The two stood wrapped together in silence as the dull echo of boot to floor reached their ears, until they released an uneasy breath in unison as Jon lowered the buxom woman to the floor and gazed down upon her with eyes the color of pitch.

"Damn interruptions," he growled softly as he slowly released Arianne, careful to keep himself in check as the woman gasped for air. Absently noting how the action did such wondrous things to her heaving breasts as the smooth expanse of skin gleamed in the fading sunlight. Arianne caught the intensity of his gaze and smirked internally to herself at the hold she had over the young man.

"Fear not my lord," she purred sensuously as she trailed her fingers along Jon's chest and then ran a delicate nail along the inner portions of his throat. "We will have time enough to get better…_acquainted,_ after dinner."

Jon grinned wolfishly down at her from her words, moving close and letting her scent fill his nose as he released a predatory growl. "I am all too eager for the opportunity then milady," he said as he stepped back and moved for the door, unmindful as Arianne moved in front of him with quick strides and he felt her body rub teasingly against his own.

Oh Jon would enjoy himself indeed.

* * *

**Finally finished, although I am gonna be honest, was hoping to get another two thousand words but alas, I couldn't focus on it long enough. And an update on why I haven't updated anything in a while.**

**A combination of real life…and my muse's inability to focus on one thing for a prolonged period of time. Fickle as hell and starting/working on my other projects while scrapping/refining some others.**

**Black Rider ch.2 is in progress and about a fifth of the way done. Hunter of the Force is in the same general place while chapter four for this is going to be started sometime in the next few days.**

**Also Return of the Dark Knight new chapter is being rewritten as I was not happy nor pleased with the direction it was going.**

**Okay that's over and done with.**

**Also to answer a reviewer's question, yes, I did indeed mean ballistae. For while Westeros has _some_ advanced mechanical achievements like the elevators in Castle Black and numerous mystical objects like wildfire and the dragonglass (enchanted obsidian), cannons are sadly out of reach. Instead they use siege weaponry like catapults and the like as their go to long range weapons along with crossbows and longbows. So thus, Jon's ship is outfitted with numerous ballistae designed for easy use aboard a vessel like Jon's. **

**And Jon's armaments aboard the _Fang_ are in fact something ancient and considered but a myth in the rest of the kingdoms, since the only _known_ records of them in Westeros are kept in Castle Black and in the other castles along the Wall. **

**Thus, no one else in the Kingdoms has them aboard their vessels, since no one from Castle Black really travels down South, unless they're a deserter or on business like Benjen when he continued visiting his brother in Winterfell. Jon never took the Black in my story, and thus is allowed to travel without persecution or limitation and can use the secrets hidden up in the Castles in the North to his advantage.**

**Because the Wall is massive, and I can only image what would happen if you saw nothing but giant ballista bolts raining down upon you. They also might have proven to be quite useful during the last time the continent actually fought against the Others.**

**Amazing what happens when things are kept hidden away from the greedy hands of politicians and warmongers.**

**Until next time!**


End file.
